


A Woman Out of Time

by RiverXSong



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Friendship, Friends to Lovers, I promise eventually things will get fluffy, Modern Original Character, Time Travel, but fuck if these characters don't need to work through some Shit (TM) first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverXSong/pseuds/RiverXSong
Summary: A young woman is vacationing solo in modern-day Paris to celebrate her birthday. Through mysterious circumstances, she finds herself alone in a world of the past. Leroux-based with some Kay influences. Rated T for now, may change down the road.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I know this type of story has been done a good few times before- I'm trying to go for something a little different that I haven't seen yet. Very much Leroux-based with some Kay references as well- very little ALW inspired but there will be some bits and pieces. Thank you for reading!

Dawn.

The sky lightened over the roofs of Paris, tinting everything with a rose gold glow. Below, the waters of the Seine glistened in the early light as it gently burbled past the paved and cobblestone streets. In her small but comfortable hotel room, Claire Tuinstra stretched as the first rays of the sun peeked through her curtains and played across her face. Snuggling deeper under the covers, she curled back into a ball, wishing the light away.

Moments later, Claire's sleep was yet again interrupted- this time by a gentle tune sounding from her smartphone. She groaned and rolled over, smacking the screen approximately where it read "Snooze." No luck. The lilting string piece continued to play.

Forcing herself to sit up, Claire squinted at her phone as she fumbled with the finicky buttons on the touch screen. At last she was able to turn off the alarm and flop back onto the plush bed, but it was too late. Claire was now entirely and irreversibly awake for the day, her mind racing as she thought of her plans for vacation. With a stretch, she shakily pulled herself out of bed.

" _Stupid!"_ she thought fiercely at herself. _"Can't even remember to turn off your dang work alarm when you're on vacation- and after going out drinking, no less!"_ She stumbled a little as she slipped out of the tight jeans she had fallen asleep in the night before after swaying back into her hotel room. Turning on the shower, she stepped into the steamy spray and let the scalding water run over her face to soothe her headache.

Not that she had gotten particularly blitzed the night before- but Claire had to admit that her friends back home were right. She was thirty now, and like a magic switch had been flipped, her tolerance for wild nights of carousing had suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a set of fine lines which traced the edge of her mouth.

" _Totally invisible lines,"_ she reminded herself as she worked a healthy dollop of shampoo through her long copper locks. _"It's not as though I'm old, after all- I'm just mature."_

She snorted at this last thought. While she may have matured in age, she wasn't sure she had ever matured in wisdom since completing college. But perhaps that wasn't fair- she wasn't manager of her department at Fairbanks Insurance for nothing. And at such a young age- Claire had been just 28 when she received the promotion, making her the youngest manager in the company- and one of only four women in her office to hold a supervisory role. It was certainly nothing to sniff at.

She finished her shower quickly and stepped out, feeling greatly refreshed and rejuvenated. She hastily threw on a pair of comfortable black slacks and a matching shirt and headed downstairs, eager to jump into her day if she was going to have to be awake.

Stopping by a local bakery, she picked up some breakfast and dined outside, watching the city slowly wake up. Of course, even at night Paris thrummed with an exuberance matched only in Claire's experience by New York- but there was still a slow ramp up in activity as shops opened their doors, buses began to run more frequently, and people began making their way to work. Being summer, the streets were also soon spotted with children running and playing, eager to soak in the summer while it lasted. Claire smiled as she watched them dash about.

Finishing her croissant, she started out toward her main destination- yesterday had been all about the Louvre and the Palais Garnier, but today was focused on the catacombs. She wondered how the Seattle or New York underground tours would compare after delving into the ancient catacombs of Paris- though she was almost certain they would pale next to the burial place of so many millions of people.

Determined to take as much time as possible soaking up the city, Claire made her way to the catacombs on foot. It was not a quick walk, but it was full of sights and sounds, taking her through the Tuileries, across the Seine, and by at least three very grand churches. Finally she arrived, jogging up to the entrance just in time to join the tour group and the guides who were set to lead them down into the interminable darkness of the ossuaries below.

Claire felt a chill run through her as she descended the long worn staircase leading into the depths. Seeing the catacombs had been high on her list of things to do in Paris, but now that she was actually here the entire thing seemed a little spooky. It certainly didn't help that the only thing on her mind as she stepped carefully down the staircase was the fate of the protagonist in _As Above, So Below._ Even so, Claire's heart thrummed with excitement as the first wall of bones appeared ahead of her.

The first time she had been to Paris, she hadn't even been aware that this had been deep beneath her feet the entire time. Then again, she had really only been in Paris for about three days, on the third stop along a two week high school chorus tour of Europe. Back then, her main goals were to ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower and visit the Palais Garnier- and both of those trips had had to be cut unfortunately short.

But now Claire was an independently wealthy woman, with disposable income to toss around on her week-long birthday present to herself. This time, she was going to do Paris right- she was going to visit every museum and church possible, drink fancy French wine, and scarf down as much delicate Parisian cuisine as possible. And part of that was delving into the caverns below the city to look at the bones of millions of long dead Parisians, grim as that may be.

The tour started off interesting enough, but after almost an hour of wandering through darkened tunnels covered in skeletons, the novelty began to wear off. The tunnels were damp and cold- and with no place before the tour to store her personal effects, Claire was struggling to carry her heavy bag and keep up with the rest of the group at the same time. Just as the group turned a corner and she shifted her bag up on her shoulder once more, she heard something drop and clatter to the ground below.

Turning on the spot in the darkness, Claire switched on her phone's light to survey the ground, unsure whether she had actually dropped something or simply knocked a rock out of place. As she scanned the ground, she realized with a nervous twinge that the voices of the tour guide and group were fading slightly into the distance. Cursing softly, she panned her light back and forth across the ground, looking for anything out of place.

There! The mysterious object turned out to be her hotel key, having no doubt slipped from her pocket as she awkwardly tried to juggle her phone and bag while navigating the tight corridors. She scooped it up quickly and rounded the corner to catch up with the group, realizing with a sinking feeling that the rest of the tourists had vanished into the dark.

Dashing down the corridor, Claire strained her ears to try and determine where the rest of her group had gotten to. Frankly, she was surprised that one of the tour guides hadn't yet noticed her absence and gone back to fetch her- they had both been very conscious of keeping everyone in line until now. Somehow, their attention must've been diverted just long enough to miss the fact that one of them was lagging behind. And now, as she jogged down the tunnel, Claire had no way to tell which of the many branching corridors they may have steered the group into. She could still hear voices echoing in the distance, but in the solid stone pathways it was impossible to pinpoint where they might be coming from.

Claire slowed to a stop as she realized she was beginning to hyperventilate- not that jogging was helping the situation much. To calm her frantically beating heart she closed her eyes and went over her options. One, she could stay where she was until the next group came through and meet up with them- if she hadn't already gone down a path beyond the normal tour. Two, she could try and retrace her steps back to the entrance, assuming she could remember the way. Or three, she could just actually die down here.

Claire shook her head hard, trying to rid herself of that particular thought. Settling herself to a cross legged position on the damp stone floor, she decided to wait a while to see if another group would come by. Pulling out her phone to pass the time, she grumbled as she realized that the signal down here, if it was getting through at all, was too weak to load anything.

However, this spurred another idea. Checking her map app, she was delighted to see that the GPS, while faint, was able to occasionally ping through. Her location sputtered in and out and flickered around, but it gave her a vague idea of where she might be in regards to the entrance. If nobody were to find her, she seemed only to need to head south a ways in order to get out.

An hour came and went, and while she heard the distant sounds of other tourists, no one passed by where she sat. At long last, she stood up with a sigh and started making her way back to where she thought the entrance might be, consoling herself with the knowledge that almost nobody _actually_ died down here. They may be lost for a while, but most people were found very quickly, either by the authorities or by people illegally exploring. It wasn't how she envisioned her vacation going, but at least she wouldn't be trapped down here forever. Using the dim lights that lined the tunnels and the spotty GPS on her phone as a makeshift guide, Claire started to pick her way back to the entrance, stopping every once in a while to call out for help.

After some time, Claire came to an odd conundrum- she had reached a fork in the tunnels. One tunnel was brightly lit and clearly well travelled- but it curved around and reached back in the wrong direction. The other tunnel was only partially illuminated, but ran in a straight line south toward the apparent location of the exit. Of course, there was no telling if the GPS had been wrong this entire time- still though, Claire did recall one particularly dark tunnel on the trip down, and no tunnels that curved quite as sharply as the more brightly illuminated one.

She bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, trying to make a choice. Finally, checking her phone one last time, she made the decision to head straight down the darkened tunnel, hoping desperately it would lead her straight back to the entrance, ignoring the nagging thought that she was about to walk blithely into her own horror movie.

The tunnel narrowed as she traversed it, and with every step Claire became more convinced that she was taking the wrong path. Surely they hadn't squeezed an entire tour group through such a tight space? But then, just as she was about to turn around and head back to the more well lit pathway, the tunnel opened up and a light appeared ahead of her, flickering around the boney walls. With a sigh of relief Claire dashed through the rest of the tunnel, ready to be free of the dark.

Claire's luck seemed to be turning back around, too, for as she slipped out of the dark tunnel she spotted a staircase leading up to the right just ahead of her. She almost shouted in delight as she raced to the stairs, eager to get back out of the catacombs, even if it meant a scolding from the tour guides for leaving the group.

As she ascended the staircase, she vaguely realized that the stairs out seemed different than the stairs in- newer, somehow. She was too excited to get back into the warm light of day, however, to give this much thought. It could be a different entrance, in any case- one that had been more recently built or renovated. She didn't even notice that the lights were dimmer, more flickery, than before.

With a final step she alighted back into the upper world- but something was wrong. Far from the warming light of day she had expected, the skies were pitch black, and the small building used to contain the entrance was completely closed up. Surely she hadn't spent an entire day stuck in the catacombs? And surely if she had, there would be a rescue effort looking for her? They had done a headcount at the beginning, would they not have realized by now that she was missing?

Trying not to feel too angry about being essentially abandoned in a cave, Claire strode grumpily toward the exit to the small building, letting herself out without concerning herself about any silent alarm she might be triggering. It didn't look like the front door was all that modern, anyway, locked with only an old fashioned bolt instead of any fancy security system.

Once outside, she was taken by how quiet the city seemed at night- and how much colder, too. She was suddenly thankful she hadn't had a place to leave her coat at the entrance, and even pulled a pair of gloves from her bag. It didn't feel like a warm summer day anymore- rather, it felt like mid fall or even a mild winter. She walked quickly through the city, back across the Seine, back toward the hotel- and only then did she realize something was wrong.

As she made her way across the darkened city, there were no cars, no other pedestrians to accompany her trek. The buildings looked mostly the same, but it seemed there were fewer structures than early in the day, and some buildings that simply hadn't existed at all. Checking her phone for directions was no help either, as the signal had cut out entirely at some point while trekking down the dark tunnel back to the surface, and had simply never come back- even the basic map wasn't loading now. Most of the streetlamps, too, had cut out, leaving the streets dark and eerie.

Claire shivered and pushed on, aware of what misfortunes may befall a single woman alone on the street after dark. The fact that no one seemed to be around didn't quell those fear, either- Paris had too many dark alleys to fully trust one's surroundings. Nevertheless, with her quickened pace Claire was able to make it back to her hotel in record time.

Except… There was no hotel. She looked around to be sure she was in the right place, and confirmed that the street name was correct. Yes, she was on Rue Volney, and the architecture was the same- but from what she could understand of the French signs in the door, she was looking at a bakery, not the lobby of a hotel. What had been hotel rooms earlier in the day seemed now to be private apartments.

Confused and exhausted, Claire stumbled back and leaned against a lamppost. She suddenly recalled a strange story from her childhood about a young girl who went travelling with her mother. At some point in the trip, the child had stepped out from their hotel to run an errand, only to find upon her return that the hotel had no record of her stay. At her insistence, they brought her to the room, only for her to find that the furnishings and decor had changed- and of course her mother was gone.

In the story, of course, the mother had suddenly fallen ill and died from the plague, and the entire erasure of the child's life was done to prevent word of the illness from getting out and prompting a mass panic and loss of revenue for the hotel. But here and now, Claire was alone. There was no reason to deceive her into believing that she had never been to this hotel- let alone to entirely redecorate it into a bakery.

Nor would it explain why everything else looked wrong, too.

The way Claire saw it there were only a few possibilities: the first, most likely scenario as she saw it was that she had lost her mind, was still in the tunnels and hallucinating, or was dreaming- or some combination thereof. Second, she had somehow slipped into an alternate dimension while navigating the catacombs. If _As Above, So Below_ was anything to go off of, it wasn't outside the realm of imagination- though this was a rather silly thought in and of itself. The only other possibility was that she had somehow slipped through time, based upon her dawning realization that the few lit street lamps were in fact _gaslights,_ and the pavement had been replaced with age-smoothed cobblestone.

Definitely going insane.

It didn't really matter in that moment, however. If her hotel had vanished into the ether, she would need to get inside, and quickly- with the sun down and the lights out, it was only getting colder and the streets were getting darker. If she _had_ travelled back in time- she allowed herself the momentary entertainment of such a ridiculous thought- she needed to get her bag away from any potential prying fingers as well. The contents of her pockets alone could vastly alter the course of history.

She headed for the biggest, brightest beacon around- the Palais Garnier. Even if the main doors had been shut up for the night, there was bound to be a side entrance through which she could slip inside, and the place itself was big enough to hide a small army in the wings. She was sure she could find a nook to wedge herself into for the night, and hopefully wake from this nightmare in the morning.

She circled the giant, squat building carefully, checking each door until at last she found an entrance which had been left ajar by a caretaker of sorts who was busily snoring atop an overturned barrel, a still smoking cigarette clutched between his fingers. As quietly as she could manage, Claire squeezed herself through the opening, allowing herself to breathe again only when she and her precious cargo were safely inside. The door led straight into the lower reaches of the opera house, and Claire found herself quite able to move around freely without being spotted- she thanked her unwitting brilliance at having worn all black.

At last, drained and exhausted, she found a small secluded area behind a great deal of scaffolding, set pieces, and props which looked as though they had been left undisturbed for years. With a yawn, she arranged herself in the furthest corner (along with a stiff but not unusable pillow swiped from a stage bedroom set) and allowed herself to drift into an uneasy sleep away from prying eyes.

But as she curled onto her side and shut out the world, she failed to notice the one pair of eyes that had noticed her quiet but panicked flight into the safe confines of the opera house. In the shadows, two golden orbs belonging to a shadow themselves tracked her movements as she picked her way across the cellar of the opera. The shadow descended to the ground behind her, following her every step in the perfect silence of a practiced ghost, determined to figure out this mystery person. And as she fell into her fitful sleep, the golden eyes kept watch, waiting for the intruder to awaken again.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn. Again.

Claire awoke slowly to the gentle sounds of early-morning human activity around her. Blinking in confusion, she looked around, wondering who had come into her hotel room without knocking. But instead of the soft drapey curtains and exquisite artwork that had greeted her the last few days, she was greeted by the soft folds of backdrops and dusty scaffolding. She groaned quietly in disappointment- the night before had not been a dream.

" _Of course, I could just be dead,"_ Claire thought to herself. _"Nothing's preventing this from just being some bizarre afterlife scenario that no one ever expected."_

Whether dead or not, Claire decided that the best course of action would be to treat this as the new normal, and try to survive as though this were now her objective reality. By the gnawing in her stomach, she knew she would have to leave her hiding place to find some sort of sustenance before long, but first she checked her phone to see if anything had changed. Unfortunately, the bar at the top still indicated no signal, and none of her apps would load properly. Switching it off, she stowed it in her bag.

Hoping for the best, Claire shoved her bag under a large pile of dust coated set pieces, as they seemed unlikely to be used in the near future. She had to slip out and explore, but doing so while weighed down by a heavy laptop, camera, and cell phone seemed to not be the best way to move stealthily around a bustling theatre. After a moment's thought, she tucked her hard-soled shoes away as well, opting to trade warmth for stealth. With her belongings securely stashed away, Claire slipped from her hiding spot- never once noticing the shadow that loomed behind her as she crept through the dimly-lit basement.

Claire silently maneuvered herself into a dark corner from which she would easily watch the people around her. As though to confirm her theory, everyone was dressed as though they had jumped right out of the 1800's. While France certainly had a different style of dress than America, Claire was pretty certain that the corsets and voluminous dresses the women wore had gone out of style a good dozen decades ago. The men's clothing was less jarring, but still looked out of place compared to her modern sensibilities. Of course, she supposed, she was truly the one out of place here- if she _had_ somehow slipped back through time, Claire would at some point need to find clothes that matched.

As she skulked around the edge of the basement, looking for the best pathways to leave the basement, she took stock of each and every individual present. A few stagehands bustled about here and there, tidying up props, gathering set pieces, and taking general inventory of what was available. At the far corner, a young woman rifled through a rack of clothing- Claire assumed she must be a costumer of some sort. To the side, a few men laid about, munching lazily on a breakfast they had brought in. Claire's stomach growled fiercely at the sight, but she didn't dare slip out from the shadows to swipe any of it. She would have to wait until everyone had left and go for the crumbs.

As if the universe heard her thought, a great clamor came from upstairs and the entire company picked themselves up to follow the ruckus. As everyone was speaking French, Claire could only understand snippets, but it seemed as though they had vacated to attend a full cast and company meeting. As soon as the last stagehand had disappeared to the floors above, Claire slipped from her hiding spot and dashed to the leftover snacks, swiping as much as she could carry.

Dipping back into the shadows, Claire ate quickly, almost choking on the stale bread and dry chicken she had pilfered. She was going to have to be on the move again quickly, as her current hiding spot wasn't ideal- while it was safe for the moment, there was no telling when a stagehand might find their way back into her tiny den. The safest thing would be to find a new hiding place, somewhere even further from prying eyes.

Ideally, she would be able to find her way into one of the many fabled secret passages that were supposed to line the opera house. She had no idea if any of these existed, but on her previous tour of the Palais Garnier in her own time, the guide had hinted that they may, in fact, exist. Without more information, however, she would have to find her way along blindly, looking for any possible clues as she searched.

She kept to the shadows as she made her rounds, ducking behind scenery and set pieces whenever the gentle rustle of skirts or raucous voices of exuberant theatre workers came near. As she stealthily infiltrated the deepest reaches of the opera, she racked her brains for clues her tour guide may have let slip, as well as tried to recall the exact paths they had taken through the labyrinthian structure.

It was in many ways the same opera house she had visited just days before- or years in the future, depending on how you looked at it. In other ways, however, it was vastly different. Much of the mechanisms below the stage for running the trapdoors, raising and lowering the curtains, and hoisting heavy set pieces into place had been replaced and upgraded by Claire's time. In this era, everything looked much simpler and rougher, with none of the shiny new steel struts and supports. Even so, it seemed as though the construction had not changed drastically since it was first built, and so she was able to find her way through the dim passages with ease.

After several hours of her careful walk-hide-walk-hide routine, Claire was almost ready to give up and accept the tiny alcove among the set pieces as her new home. Then, just as she was about to turn back, she spotted an odd alcove set out of place along the edge of the corridor she now traversed. Had she not turned at the exact moment she did, she would likely never have spotted it. But now, squeezing herself into the tight space, she realized intuitively that it was not meant to be here, not meant to be seen.

Claire ran her hands along the edges of the alcove, looking for some sort of handle or knob that would let her into whatever room lay beyond. She knew it was a risk- it could just as easily lead to a well lit room full of theatre workers as it could to a secret hideaway, but she had to give it a shot. It was hide out in the opera or face life on the streets in 19th century (she assumed) France- and that was not a possibility she was ready to face.

Patting roughly at the walls, Claire at last felt out what seemed like a switch, though she wasn't able to see it clearly in the dark. As she tugged on it, however, the wall at the back of the alcove slide to one side, the rock grinding roughly as it did so. Beyond the alcove lay her prize- a small darkened chamber, followed by another narrow tunnel on the other side. While it wasn't a perfectly isolated room, it was clear that it wasn't traversed regularly by the workers of the Palais Garnier, and therefore would serve well as a hiding spot until she could make sense of her new, uncertain existence. Claire squeezed herself inside and let the door slide shut behind her, making sure to note where the corresponding switch sat on her side of the door before she was engulfed in darkness.

As her eyes adjusted to the sudden lack of light, Claire presently noticed a small pinprick of light coming from the corner. She groped her way along the wall until she reached it, realizing that it came from a small hole in the masonry. Pressing her face against the cold rock, it became clear to her that it functioned more or less as a peephole, from where she could watch the stagehands as they bustled about the vast space under the stage. It wasn't much for entertainment, but it would allow her to judge when it was safe again to slip out and gather her belongings to bring back to her new hiding spot- as well as hopefully a blanket and some pillows. She hoped she might even find some more leftover food scraps before turning in for the evening.

And so began a long game of watch, nap lightly, and sit in boredom as she waited for the various workers to clear out for the day. When at long last it seemed as though the activity had settled and the stagehands packed up to get started on rehearsal again the next day, Claire slipped back into the main corridor, counting her steps carefully as she slipped back to the room where her bag and shoes had been waiting for her.

As she crept back to her previous hiding place, Claire also managed to procure some sheeting and drop cloths that might function as slightly better blankets than her coat, and a rusty oil lamp- she was suddenly glad for the lighter she carried everywhere, even though she wasn't a smoker. Slipping back into the alcove, she dug around for her bag in the spot where she had hidden it.

It was gone.

Her shoes had been left behind, untouched by whoever had taken her bag. But the bag itself, with her phone, laptop, and camera all stored inside had clearly been spirited away by some unknown individual. With a pit in her stomach, she scrambled around as quietly as possible, hoping that she had simply mistaken where she had placed her bag- but no. It was absolutely and entirely gone.

With nothing left to do but hope it might turn up at some odd moment, Claire gathered her shoes and the rough pillow from the night before and silently made her way back to the hidden room behind the stage. By the light of the oil lamp, she arranged her new bed to be as comfortable as possible, and slipped slowly into an uneasy and hungry sleep.

The shadow hovered, ever watchful from the small but open tunnel opposite Claire's sleeping place.


	3. Chapter 3

Claire awoke once more, this time to crushing darkness and a seemingly bottomless pit in her stomach that gnawed at her insides. Her throat felt as though it had been coated in sawdust, and she realized with a regretful pang that she hadn't taken the time to find water during her exploration of the depths of the Palais Garnier.

Lifting herself gingerly up to the peephole which looked out into one of the basements below the stage, Claire surmised that it must still be nighttime based on the complete lack of any of the theatre company. It was as good a time as any to go hunting for sustenance, so she folded up her makeshift blankets and felt along the wall toward the hidden door that would lead her back into the main corridors of the opera house. Just as she felt the hidden switch that activated the door under her fingers, a voice floated through the darkness.

" _Mademoiselle…"_

Claire froze in place. There was no way the voice had been directed at her, and yet it sounded as though it had come from directly behind her. She turned slowly on the spot, peering through the darkness. Though it was nearly pitch black, she could faintly make out the shape of the walls around her and the edge of the tunnel that led down to God-knows-where. There was no one else in the room with her.

She turned again to the hidden door and reached for the switch. Then, like before, it happened again.

" _Mademoiselle…"_

Claire sprang back from the door and leapt for her corner, patting the floor frantically to find the oil lamp she had pilfered earlier. Finding it, she fumbled with her lighter as she struggled to turn it on. When she at last had illuminated the small chamber with the soft glow of the tiny flame, she looked around once more, peering through the darkness.

She almost fell over as she saw it- a tall figure standing in the shadows of the narrow corridor opposite her. She knew her discovery of this chamber had been too good to be true, and now she was paying for not listening to her intuition. While the figure was more or less silhouetted in the dim light, it seemed to look down on her disapprovingly. Claire licked her lips, attempting to wet them to speak.

"Ah-" she faltered, her voice cracking from dehydration.

In response, the figure began whispering at length in French. Though she was unable to understand much of it, she surmised that she was being asked what she was doing here and how she got here.

"Pardon, monsieur," she rasped, interrupting the flow of questions coming from the shadowed man who stood before her. "Um, parlez-vous Anglais?"

The shadow stopped, then started again in lightly accented English.

"Well," it hissed, "that certainly makes this even more interesting. How did a young woman such as yourself- an Englishwoman for that matter- end up in these dark recesses of the Palais Garnier? Should you not be with your family, on vacation perhaps? For what reason would you seek shelter here?"

Claire swallowed hard. She had expected this line of questioning if she were to be caught- she just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. "I was on vacation, yes," she explained. "But not with my family- I came to Paris alone, from America, not England. By no fault of my own, I have found myself without money and without means to travel back home. Fearing the streets of Paris, I came here because- Because-"

Claire paused. What _was_ the reason she had chosen to hide out in the Palais Garnier, of all places. To be sure, it was expansive and full of excellent hiding places- but it was also heavily trafficked by stagehands, singers, ballerinas, and of course the wealthy opera goers when a performance was to take place. As she now found herself in the presence of a man who she could only assume was a guard or caretaker, the entire idea seemed to be somewhat foolish- no doubt all who worked here knew of the various secret chambers and passages built into the foundations.

"I didn't actually think it through," she finally said. "It was late at night when I found myself in these circumstances- I simply headed for what seemed like the most accessible building. I didn't have an actual plan- just that I needed to survive."

The shadow nodded slowly, as though prompting her to continue.

"But," she said firmly, "I realize this was a foolish idea. Please, sir, don't leave me to the streets. If you can give me work here- any job, really- I'll be more than happy to work for room and board alone until I can figure out how to get home."

The shadow chuckled almost sinisterly at this outburst. " _Any_ job, you say?" it responded. "But what sort of job would the managers give a thief- not that anyone has realized that it was you responsible for the sudden disappearance of Monsieur Boucher's breakfast. The prevailing theory thus far is that the opera ghost was responsible. Those silly little ballet rats will blame anything on the ghost- but we can't have that, now can we? What kind of respectable ghost steals food? No, I simply cannot allow that to continue."

Claire's head reeled at the strange turn in the conversation. A rush of shame for her actions earlier in the day washed over her, only to be replaced by a sudden suspicion.

"Sir," she accused, "you speak as if _you_ are the ghost you speak of. Are you employed by the opera or not? And if so, can you advise me on how I might seek employment myself?"

The shadow only sighed in response. "Mademoiselle," it finally said, "I find that your explanation of how you came to be here is lacking. It seems unlikely that a woman of your age would be travelling alone, with no husband or other family to guide her. And then there is the matter of your strange appearance. Please, do enlighten me as to how you found yourself in such unfortunate, penniless circumstances."

Claire glared into the darkness, as though challenging the shadow to question her further. "Sir, if you cannot advise me on how to seek employment here or elsewhere in the city, I have to conclude that you are _not_ employed yourself by the opera, and would appreciate if you left me be. I've found myself in, as you said, some very unfortunate circumstances, and would like them to not become any worse. If I leave the Palais Garnier, I-" her voice wavered a bit here, "I'll have to rough it on the streets, and honestly? I'm not a fan of that idea."

The shadow cocked his head to the side in apparent confusion at her odd choice of words, then shrugged. "Well," it finally began again, "you are correct in that I cannot offer you employment, and neither can I recommend you for a position to the managers. But I also cannot allow you to traipse unfettered throughout my opera house."

" _Your_ opera house?" Claire demanded. The shadow gave no response, but instead shifted back and forth, as though deliberating upon a great decision. Claire sat back against the wall, waiting for his response.

After a few minutes, the shadow spoke again. "While I have very little conscience, it goes against my morals to allow a young unwed woman to be cast into the streets of Paris. Though France is not the place it was even ten years ago, these are desperate times for the poor- too many have been forced into… the most unsavory of occupations."

As he trailed off, Claire quirked an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"Therefore," he said at last, "if you do not mind an- _unorthodox_ living arrangement, I can offer you a place to sleep, at least for a time. You will, however, have to trust me."

Claire squinted at the shadow, unsure of exactly what she was being asked. As though understanding her reticence, it continued.

"I promise, no harm will come to you in my presence. You must simply understand and accept that my living arrangements are not those of a normal man."

At this Claire shrugged. "I was ready to camp out in this hidden chamber, wasn't I? I suppose right now, I'm not exactly fussed by odd living situations. I'm not entirely sure why you would offer me room, however."

"Right," the shadow responded, clearly confused once more by her odd choice of words. "As I said, I simply do not feel right in allowing you to live on the streets- nor can I allow the opera company to believe that the ghost has begun stealing their hard-earned scraps. Besides- I find your presence here intriguing- a mystery."

Claire shrugged again, feeling a wave of hunger wash over her as her stomach growled angrily. "Whatever dude," she muttered. "Right now I honestly just need some food and water. I'll take whatever you've got." She meant it too- in that moment he could have promised her a prison cell, and she would have taken it if it meant getting a solid meal and a proper sleep.

The shadow nodded at her. "Follow me then."

It moved into the tunnel ahead of her, and Claire followed, picking herself up from the floor with her oil lamp in hand. The shadowy corridor led to a set of stairs that spiraled down into the depths, bringing her and the stranger to another rock door controlled by a switch. As this one slid open, Claire could see an underground lake or cistern ahead of her, and a sudden realization began to creep into her sleep deprived and hunger addled brain.

The shadow helped her down into a boat, and as the faint light from her lamp illuminated the space around her, bouncing off the wet rocks and the surface of the lake around her, she could now see that the man who steered the boat was dressed from head to toe in black, with a thick cloak draped around his shoulders. He steered the boat with a graceful strength, bringing it to a stop at a wall at the far end of the cistern. To anyone not looking for it, it looked as though they had stopped at a shear wall- but Claire could see the faint outline of a door in the rock face. The man stepped gingerly onto a slight ledge, then dexterously maneuvered some unseen switches, allowing the door to shift and slide open.

As he turned to help Claire out of the boat, the glow from the lamp illuminated him at last- in addition to the full black suit he wore, the man also sported a silk black mask that covered his entire face.

"Holy shit," Claire breathed, hardly believing it even now. "You're the phantom of the opera."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! If you've seen this on FF.net, you'll probably know that we're now caught up over here to what I've already posted. I'll have some new content very shortly- like next couple of days shortly. And, of course, thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say today, other than to thank you for reading! Also, as we get further into the story, things are getting mildly complex- that said, I highly appreciate any feedback or critiques you might have!

As Claire stepped from the boat and onto the ledge that would lead her into the Phantom’s domain, she stared slack-jawed in disbelief. She was standing next to a supposedly fictional character, about to step into the home he had constructed deep beneath the Palais Garnier. Part of her was dumbstruck- the other was shocked she hadn’t made the connection earlier, what with all his talk of being a “respectable ghost.”

On the other hand, she hadn’t eaten a proper meal in well over a day, and her time as a Phantom of the Opera fangirl were long behind her and almost forgotten. True- it was her love of the musical and novel that had led her to visit the Palais Garnier on her first trip to Paris, but it was now her love of classical architecture and art that brought her back. And unlike some phans, she had never really entertained the idea that the character of the Phantom had been based upon a real person.

And yet, here he stood- his hands nimbly maneuvering some unseen mechanism to open the flat stone wall in front of them. As the door revealed itself and slid aside, the Phantom spoke, breaking through Claire’s whirling thoughts. “Yes,” he responded, “there are those who call me that. I am surprised, however, that you know of this- to those outside the opera company, I am not well known- and to most of those inside, I am little more than a tall tale. How does a young woman from America know of my presence here?”

A nervous laugh burst from her throat, awkward and almost unrecognizable to her own ears. “Yeah, that’s a good question!” she nearly screamed before clapping her hands over her mouth to control any further outbursts. The phantom merely stared at her, his expression hidden behind the silken mask.

“No matter,” he sighed, leading her into the chilly confines of his home. The air was damp, causing Claire to shiver; but as the phantom began to light the lamps dotted about the drawing room, she could see that once warmed up it might actually be quite cozy. “We shall speak of this further, once you have dined and recovered. For now, you may rest in this bedroom.” He opened one of a few doors which led out from the drawing room, revealing a generously sized chamber beyond. Claire nervously stepped forward, unsure of what she might find. She recalled the lavish swan bed from the 2004 movie musical, and vaguely remembered something about a “Louise-Phillip” room- or something like that- from the book. Then there was the Phantom’s room itself, which was supposedly set with a coffin as the bed. But as she stepped into the bedroom, she found that it was more or less a normal bedroom- if perhaps a bit ornately decorated by modern standards. 

Beside a few chairs and a chaise lounge placed strategically around the room, the chamber was dominated by a large mahogany bed in the center that vaguely reminded Claire of a boat. It and some of the other furniture were decorated with cloth that quite honestly looked as though it had been stripped down from the walls of her grandmother’s house. Everything in the room seemed to be carved from mahogany or some other rich dark wood, and every surface was covered with scattered knickknacks of varying types. At the Phantom’s gesture, Claire moved to the bed and sat down. It was wonderfully soft, and as she laid back against the pillows she could feel her aches and pains from sleeping on the cold stone floor start to dissipate.

When she looked up again, the Phantom had left, leaving the door ever so slightly ajar- it was a good thing, too, as Claire noticed that from this side the door was designed so as to blend perfectly with the wall when closed. From the gentle sounds in the room beyond, she surmised he was gathering some sustenance for her. Using the time to try and gather her thoughts, she went over what she could remember from watching the musical and reading the book in high school. She knew that he lived alone in this dungeon below the Palais Garnier- or the Opera Populaire, depending on which version you were referencing. She knew he fell in love with young Christine Daae at some point, but wasn’t sure if that had happened yet- or for that matter, if Christine actually existed. Gaston Leroux’s novel was, after all, supposed to be a work of fiction. It was now clear that the Phantom truly existed- as Leroux himself had claimed at the beginning of his novel- but that didn’t mean that the rest of the story hadn’t been created from whole cloth. 

Claire ran through more of the details- she recalled the Phantom’s real name was Erik, at least in the book. The Phantom of the musical had no name which was given at any point during the play, of course, but that wouldn’t help. And of course, he was supposed to be monstrously deformed, though the various versions couldn’t agree on exactly how. And then there was the fact that he was a murderer, a stalker, and an extortionist…

This wasn’t exactly the time to be worrying about this, however. Claire was starving, and moreover she was exhausted. Having slept on the hard stone floor two nights in a row had left her aching all over, and the plush bed she now sat on was delightfully relaxing. Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she allowed herself to lean back and close her eyes. Before long, she was snoring gently, gently cocooned in the thick comforter and down pillows.

* * *

Erik retired to his room alone. Pouring himself a large goblet of a rich Bordeaux, he collapsed in a black velvet armchair and cast his mask across the room, not looking to see where it fell. It was a risk, leaving himself exposed with a stranger in his home, but he had a migraine and the damn thing wasn’t helping. Rubbing his temples, he sniffed delicately at the wine and tipped it back, downing half the glass in seconds. 

Setting it back down, he leaned back in his chair as the wine hit his empty stomach, filling him with an almost immediate warmth. He desperately needed the relaxation- even if it was only temporary. He was deeply regretting his rash decision to take in the mysterious young woman who had appeared in his opera house already. At least  _ she _ seemed at ease- or at least asleep- even if he wasn’t.

He had brought her a small tray of dinner shortly after offering her the room, but even the tempting smell of rosemary and thyme wafting from the tender roast chicken had failed to rouse her. It was a shame, really, as he had a myriad of questions and was horribly anxious to get the conversation over and done with. The sooner he could go back to holing himself up alone with his music, the better. The girl could even remain for all he cared- so long as he didn’t have to spend time with her. But first, he had to know some things.

From the moment the girl had appeared in the Palais Garnier, he had known something was strange about her. Her manner of dress, her hair, even the way she carried herself were so  _ different _ than the young women who lived and worked in the opera house. There was something  _ other _ about her that he simply couldn’t place, and he needed to understand this anomaly.

As his thoughts whirled, Erik’s fingers played over the edge of the strange, clamshell-like device he had pulled from the girl’s bag upon spiriting it down to his underground lair. Gently teasing it open once more, he marveled at the strange and sudden appearance of an illuminated picture- a different one now from what he had first seen! A day before, opening the device had shown him a serene view of a lake high in the mountains- now, a nighttime image of a vibrant and impossibly complex city appeared on the screen attached to the strange flat typewriter. He stared at it in awe for several seconds, taking in the lights, the bright dots that looked like strange, self-powered vehicles, and the impossibly tall buildings- particularly the one that looked as though someone had plopped a giant pie dish atop three precarious stilts. It looked as though straight from someone’s wildest dreams- or, more likely, from some far-flung future.

Erik sighed and closed the clamshell once more.

He was no stranger to the idea of time travel- it had, of course, been discussed as a theoretical possibility in some of the more fantastical books he had read- but this here was living proof that it could be done. The devices she carried were manufactured out of a strange material- almost like rubber, but solid like steel, and smoother than the most polished wood. When he had first opened the strange, clamshell device and it lit up, he had almost dropped it in shock- but soon had turned to thoughts of disassembly so as to understand how it worked. It was upon opening the casing and seeing the inordinately minute components within that he realized they could not possibly have come from this time.

He had tried to come up with alternate theories as to the origin of this strange young woman, but all thoughts led to the same place- at some point in the distant future, humanity had discovered a way to travel not only around the world, but around time as well. Therefore, the girl was telling the truth- she  _ was _ on vacation, and had fallen victim to one of the usual pitfalls of unwary travelers. Paris  _ had _ always been infamous for pickpockets and con artists, after all.

This, however, wasn’t interesting in and of itself to Erik. The real trick would be to understand how she might return to her time- and if he might be able to convince her to allow him to join her. No doubt there were strict laws governing the use of time travel, but given the right persuasion… Well, anyone could be convinced to bend the rules once motivated to do so. 

Besides, he reasoned as he poured himself another deep cup of wine, it wasn’t as though he wanted to move permanently to another time- he simply wanted to take a brief vacation as well. He would learn about whatever amazing technological advances humanity had made, see the future utopia for himself- avail himself of some advanced medicine- and return to his own century with a new lease on life. It was a very nice little plan, all told, and once back he could finally introduce himself to Christine as a man- for surely, if the architects of the future could craft a building which looked as though it might topple at the first brisk wind, the doctors of the time could craft him a face like any man might have.

Yes, he would finally reveal himself to Mlle. Daae as a man- and she would forget all about the young Vicomte. She would love him, just as he loved her. It was a perfect plan. 

Erik downed the rest of his wine in one swallow and threw the cup from his hand, letting it fall in the same manner he had done with his mask.

If his plan was so perfect, why then this foul mood? In truth, Erik felt ready to murder the first person who came across his path, but even he couldn’t say why. If he could indeed make it to the future, and if he could find a doctor to assist him, and if he came back to his time-

Ah. “If.”

Everything about this plan hinged on one huge unknown- whether the girl was indeed from the future, or if it instead was one elaborate hoax. Logically, this option didn’t make sense- why would someone decide to trick him, the infamous opera ghost? Indeed,  _ how _ would they decide to play a trick on him, when no one could decide whether he actually existed or not? There was no reason this might be a trick, and yet the notion of time travel was just as illogical.

And there was the reason for the gnawing anxiety in the pit of Erik’s stomach. None of these questions could be answered until the girl was awake, and the only thing he could do now was wait. With a sigh, Erik settled deeper into the chair and let the warmth from the rich wine wash over him, sending him into a restless slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik was jolted from his restless sleep by the gentle but unexpected sound of piano music. Forgetting momentarily the events of the evening prior, he started up from his seat, scrambled for his mask where it had landed in a corner of the room, and burst from his bedroom into the drawing room, prepared to fight off intruders. Instead he found Claire sitting at the piano, slowly but accurately picking out the notes to  Für Elise. 

“You- you play!” he gasped, both in surprise and sudden exhaustion from his initial burst of panic and outrage. His hands slowly unclenched and his shoulders dropped as the adrenaline drained from his system and Claire turned to face him with a shy smile.

“I do,” she responded. “Though not very well I’m afraid- I’m very out of practice. And are you okay? You seem, uh…” She trailed off here, staring at her host’s still panicked deameanor.

Erik drew himself up in a regal manner, willing his heart to stop racing. “I’m quite alright, thank you. And you have nothing to apologize for, more music is always welcome in within these walls. But come!” So saying, he turned and swept toward the little kitchen, gesturing for Claire to follow. “You must be very hungry, and we have manners of importance to discuss.”

Claire looked at him quizzically but followed. Within a few minutes, she found herself presented with warm, buttery toast, freshly cooked eggs and a large goblet of fragrant fruit juice. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation and she dug in.

“I never got to thank you for the meal you left last night,” she said between bites of toast as the phantom sat down across the table from her, noticeably declining any food for himself. “I’m afraid I was pretty damn exhausted, but thank you- the chicken was much more delicious than Mr. Boucher’s breakfast the other day.”

“I could not very well leave you to starve,” responded the phantom. His words were clipped, and Claire suspected he was holding something back, or searching for the right words to say something else.

In an effort to ease the tension, Claire spoke again. “I never got your name, either,” she said in what she hoped was an imploring tone. If it was, the man across the table gave nothing away.

“Neither do I have yours.”

Claire fought the urge to roll her eyes. So  _ this _ was how they were going to play the game. Very well. “My name is Claire. Claire Tuinstra. And you are…” she prompted in return.

The Phantom looked away silently. Claire continued staring at him, refusing to break eye contact until he gave her the dignity of being able to call him by a proper name. Finally, he sighed. “If you must call me anything, you may call me Erik. Though I promise you, I will know if you tell anyone else this…  _ privileged _ information.”

Claire nodded. So the original novel was correct- at least in naming the opera ghost. How much more of it could be true she did not know, and it didn’t seem the right time to ask. It hardly mattered, though, as Erik spoke up again, stopping her train of thought short.

“So, Mlle. Tuinstra… am I correct in assuming that you are not from this time?”

Claire dropped her fork in shock. She stared at the masked figure in front of her, but again he gave nothing away. Finally, after a very pregnant pause, Claire started laughing awkwardly.

“Wow.. Damn, I really thought I was gonna have to float that whole thing a  _ lot _ slower- but cool. Yes. You  _ are  _ correct. I am  _ definitely _ not from now.” She paused to take another bite of toast, then continued. “I gotta ask though- what gave it away?”

Erik glanced away again, almost as though in shame. “It was your clamshell device,” he responded rather cryptically, leaving Claire to narrow her eyes at him.

“Clamshell…?” she asked. “I don’t know what you mean, like a compact mirror or something?”

“A- what now?” he responded in confusion. “No, the photograph viewing device. One moment- I will fetch it.”

Claire stared in abject confusion as the man glided silently out of the room and back again, this time carrying a very familiar object- the bag she had tried to stow out of sight on her first night at the Opera.

“ _ You _ took my bag!” she accused, perhaps more harshly than she had intended. “And after all this talk of not making the Opera Ghost seem like a petty thief- you  _ were _ the petty thief all along!”

At her accusation, Erik slumped into his chair and sort of curled into himself ever so slightly- though Claire was sure even Erik hadn’t noticed his own subconscious admission of shame. As he sat, though, he pulled Claire’s laptop from her bag and set it on the table between them.

“The clamshell device,” he prompted.

“Right!” Claire responded. “My laptop- I guess it does have a clamshell design, I just thought you meant something a lot smaller.” She opened it up, but this time it stayed dark. “Oh, come on!” she groaned. “Look, it’s completely out of battery now. I don’t suppose you have working electric outlets?”

Erik tilted his head in confusion. “Outlets? I have electricity, of course- it is a much greater convenience than to use oil lamps- but I’m afraid I don’t know what an ‘outlet’ is.”

“Uh- it’s a spot on the wall you can plug things into- hang on.” Claire reached for her bag and dug around inside until she found the charger for her laptop and held it up for demonstration. “See, you plug this end into the laptop, and this end connects up with the wall so that it can be charged. I could show you how this thing works, but without a place to plug it in it’s basically just dead.”

Erik gingerly took the charger from her and examined the plug end carefully before setting it down. “Some inventors have been toying with the idea of connecting portable devices to electrical power- a man in Britain has created what he calls a ‘lamp holder plug,’ if I recall. I’ve never had need for such a thing as of yet- but I believe I could easily fashion a way to connect it to the wiring in my home if you would like to… charge it?”

Claire stifled a giggle at his awkward usage of her own modern dialect. “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble,” she responded. “I never did understand electrical work myself, but I’m not adverse to someone else giving it a go. Anyway- was that all you wanted to talk about?”

“Mm- no.” Erik shook his head and looked back up from the cord. “I wanted to ask you about your plans and intentions here. I assume you are on some kind of- well, time vacation? I of course don’t know how all of this works, but I wouldn’t imagine you were planning to stay here permanently with only a few strange devices from your own time.”

Claire stared at him for a moment before it clicked. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You think I’m vacationing- I mean, I  _ am _ vacationing, but you think I’m vacationing  _ here! _ ”

“Yes.” He spoke as if to a small and particularly stupid child. “That  _ is  _ what you told me you were doing in Paris.”

Claire smiled awkwardly. “Right. I did say that, didn’t I?”

Erik continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “Either way, I assume you have plans to return to your own time- as one usually does on a vacation. Quite simply, when you leave, I would like to join you.” 

Claire paused. “You- you want to go to the future with me?”

“Yes. I assume there are laws and regulations against this, but you’ll find I am quite insistent upon this. There are many things about the future of this world that I imagine would make my life a great deal more pleasant.”

Claire shook her head in disbelief. “No, it’s not that- I’m happy to take you back to my own time with me- but did you consider that if I could get back easily, I wouldn’t have decided to take refuge in the Palais Garnier instead?”

Erik paused awkwardly. “I did not.”

Claire sighed. “Look, here’s the thing- I’m not from that far in the future, just about a hundred and forty years or so. I get that that might seem like a lot, but we’re really not that more technologically advanced, at least not in the way speculative fiction would have you believe.”

“But- this device!” Erik swept his hand over the laptop on the table. “There was a picture on it of the most incredible city, with self-driven wagons and impossible buildings!”

“Seattle?” Claire asked, prompting a shrug from her breakfast companion. “Nighttime picture, weird observation deck type building?” Erik nodded. “Yep, that’s the Space Needle- they’ll build it in the 60’s I think. It’s really not that fancy- just heckin’ expensive to go to the top. Hell, it's not nearly as tall as the Eiffel Tower right here in Paris- though I guess they won't start building that one for another couple of years.”

She sighed again. “My point is- by my time we don’t have time travel any more than you guys have airplanes. Sure, we’ve looked into it, and I think we’ve even made some light particles travel very short lengths in time, but it’s not a reality for humans yet. The truth is, I don’t know  _ how _ I got here- it just sorta… happened.”

Erik slumped again, ever so slightly. “Then… you are  _ not _ planning to return home?”

Claire shrugged, and she was surprised to feel the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes for the first time in days. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’d much rather go home if I could, but I have no idea how to. If I figure it out, I’ll gladly take you with me.”

Erik sat back in his chair and sank deep into thought, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Tell me,” he finally said, “what exactly happened before you ended up here? Surely moving through time would be a large, noticeable event?”

“I was in the catacombs,” Claire responded slowly. “I don’t know how, but something happened down in the catacombs that brought me here.”

“Right,” Erik replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. “You just decided to go for a walk in the catacombs beneath Paris, and they magically transported you back 140 years into the past.”

“Look here now,” Claire growled, “first of all, in my time, the catacombs are a big tourist attraction, all right? And second of all, well,  _ yes! _ ” She launched into the story of descending into the darkness, getting split from the group and lost in the tunnels, and emerging into this unfamiliar and unfriendly world. To his credit, Erik didn’t interrupt- though Claire could not tell if he believed her, either.

“Well,” he said when at last Claire’s tale caught up to the present, “have you thought of retracing your steps in the catacombs to get back?”

She hadn’t.

“It is a possibility we may try at some point,” Erik continued. “Though accessing the catacombs now is not so easy as purchasing an exorbitantly priced day pass- you must make an appointment with the right people, and even then you may only be allowed in under strict supervision, and only if the caves are currently open. Such an endeavor will need careful planning before we attempt it.”

Claire narrowed her eyes, struck by a sudden suspicion. “You know,” she said carefully, “you’re very focused on this whole time travel thing. One would think you only allowed me to stay here on the notion that I might be able to jump you forward to the future.”

Erik shrugged and waved one hand lazily in the air. “What I said about my morals still stands, but I won’t deny that your… origins intrigued me. If this displeases you, you may always, how did you say it- “rough it” on the streets of Paris.”

Claire sighed. “Fine, you’ve got me there- just let me know when we can go sneaking down to the catacombs, since I’m certain you don’t mean to arrange an official tour. Once we’re in, I’ll do my best to retrace my steps.”

Erik stood in one fluid movement. “It’s settled then. I will make the arrangements, as well as see if I cannot bring your ‘laptop’ back to life. Until then…” He trailed off.

“Until then...?” 

Erik glanced around. “You may read any of my books of course- I have a few in English. And of course, the piano in the drawing room is at your disposal. And…” he trailed off again, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head he glided away, taking Claire’s laptop and charger with him- and leaving behind the distinct impression that he had something more which he could not physically bring himself to say.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I honestly didn't realize it had been so incredibly long since I last updated. Between my change in job keeping me 10x busier than the last one and a severe case of writer's block, I had an extra hard time getting this chapter finished up and ready to be published. I have a pretty hashed out game plan for the next several chapters though, so things should be running a bit more smoothly now (fingers crossed!)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and thank you SO much for your patience!

Erik swept silently back into his room, fairly biting his tongue to keep himself from screeching ungracefully. _Of course_ she couldn't just take him back with her, _of course_ there had to be some big wrinkle in the whole thing- what was it they said about the best laid plans, after all? Not that this plan had been particularly well made, but he hadn't expected it to crumble so quickly.

Almost worse, he had been _awkward_. It was no secret, especially to Erik himself, that he was not particularly comfortable around other people, particularly women- but he had always been able to command a certain air of mystery. No doubt it was a function of the long years he had now spent isolated beneath the Palais Garnier, though knowing that did little to cool the heat that flushed through his pale cheeks. He had simply yearned to know more- more of the future, of his strange houseguest, of how she knew his fanciful pseudonym- but had found himself quite unable to voice his curiosities.

_"Stupid!"_ he thought viciously, sweeping a stack of papers angrily from a small desk in the corner before setting the laptop down for later inspection. _"Have I grown so distant from the world that I can only talk to another from behind a mirror? From behind the facade of an angel?!"_

There was only one thing to do- with a flourish, he sat himself grumpily in front of his organ and began to pour his emotions into the instrument, not caring for the moment that the dark music might distress his houseguest. Her emotional wellbeing was no concern of his, after all. He cared only for what she could offer him, nothing more…

As the music pounded out around him, Erik felt his self directed anger ebb away, to be replaced by whirling thoughts of wonder. The things, the concepts the girl had spoken of! The Space Needle? Eiffel Tower? Portable electronics to be connected to a wall in every room?

It was a bit much. And yet, he wanted- no, _needed_ more. Like a parched fox in the desert, he had long since drank the oasis of knowledge dry and now found himself surrounded only by dead sands. This girl offered more than a trip to a brighter future- she, and the strange devices she had brought along promised untold secrets of a world more advanced than his own. Perhaps the quenching of his thirst for new wonders would be enough of a trade for housing her, even without visiting her world.

Perhaps.

But for now it was of no matter. He let his whirling thoughts slip away as his hands danced gracefully and irascibly across the keys. Only this mattered- the music, the invention, the pouring of soul into works. This he could do, and this was in his control.

* * *

As Erik slipped away from their conversation, Claire felt a pit yawn open in the base of her stomach. Something was wrong. She couldn't know what, but she felt it on a visceral level- and very late it occurred to her that she didn't understand the situation she had found herself in at all.

For a moment, a wild thought sprang to mind- with her phone, she could just download the ebook version of Phantom and re-read it! But no- of course, there was no internet, no 4G signal, nothing. However, it might still be in her Kindle library.

Erik had taken the laptop, but left the bag. In a brief moment of hope, Claire retrieved her phone from it and turned it on. No sooner had she done so, however, than it shut itself off- it must've drained out its battery on her first night here by searching constantly for a signal. Unless Erik could find a way to connect up her electronics, she was out of luck.

Maybe it was for the best, though- if she _did_ still have an ebook of his life, what was preventing Erik from going through her phone and finding it? Even letting him figure out how to get her computer up and running was a risk, since she still had a copy of the Original Broadway Cast Phantom recording in her iTunes library, a memory of fandom days gone by. It seemed important to keep him away from any details of his own life- Claire had seen enough time travel TV shows and movies to know that.

Trying to quiet her mind, Claire dug through her bag to take stock of what else she had brought into the past with her. Aside from her laptop and phone, she had thankfully had the presence of mind to bring along chargers for both of them, as well as her earbuds- if Erik could get things working again, at least she wouldn't have to give up her 21st century music and video games- though she wasn't sure how she was going to handle the sudden lack of an internet connection. Also buried in her bag was her makeup clutch, a first aid kit, and her wallet- as though having a fistful of euros and a driver's license would be much help in this setting.

Still though, the cache of modern comfort items was a small boon. Claire hugged her bag close to her chest like a security blanket and allowed herself one private sigh of despair. It almost felt as though the reality of her situation was unable to sink in until now - now, when she had finally slept, eaten, and refreshed herself.

With that thought, Claire suddenly realized that she hadn't taken a proper shower or bath since leaving her hotel the other day to head to the catacombs - and she was carrying about a century's worth of dust and grime around with her. She hadn't seen one yet, but this small house certainly had to have a restroom - unless she was expected to bathe in the underground lake.

Claire started to investigate the space around her. Aside from the kitchen and dining area she currently sat in, the main space also included the drawing room, separated slightly from the rest of the space by a pair of columns set atop two matching bookcases. If it were a more modern American house, she might call this space a "great room," but she surmised that Erik had constructed it as such merely because he never anticipated having guests and designed it purely for his own needs. Attached to the drawing room were the two doors which led to what must be Erik's room, and the Louis-Whatever room Claire had slept in earlier, but these were the only two doors.

Puzzled, Claire made her way around the room. She knew it was possible that there were other doors hidden along the wall - maybe even many. Finding them, however, might be impossible. She put the thought aside and circled back around toward the bedroom.

As she passed the chaise lounge in the drawing room, however, a sudden attack on her ankle tripped her up. Gasping in shock and pain, she sat down hard on the couch and looked underneath to find what had stopped her. She was surprised to see a pair of glowing green eyes staring playfully back at her, and nearly screamed in delight.

Underneath the lounge sat a veritable loaf of a cat, speckled in red, brown, and white. Claire gently coaxed the critter from under the seat and scooped her into her lap. She was a beautiful calico, with tortoiseshell patterns across her back. Around her neck hung a blue satin bow adorned with a single large diamond.

"Aww, kit kit," Claire murmured, gently kneading her fingers around the cat's ears. "If I remember my Phantom canon correctly, I'm guessing you're Ayesha- though, I think you're supposed to be a siamese. I guess your name might be different too, but either way you're a sweet little bean."

Claire sat and snuggled with the cat for a few minutes until the small beast decided it was time to hunt some unseen adversary in another corner of the room. Freed from the risk of committing a federal offense by moving the cat, Claire resumed her investigation of the apartment and headed back to the bedroom.

The Louis-Phillipe room- of course! It crashed upon her like a wave. Of course, it didn't really help- despite her admiration for Regency and Victorian fashion, Claire couldn't pick out anything in the room that could define a certain era or style of construction. Still though, remembering the name helped, in as much as it provided her with a framework to base her new surroundings around.

As she made her way into the room, she noticed for the first time a door on the opposite end, leading to a rather opulent bathroom complete with a toilet, sink, and clawfoot bathtub. It took a few minutes to figure out exactly how to work the bath, but eventually Claire managed to draw a steady stream of hot water into the basin, breathing a sigh of relief that the mad genius whose house she now shared had had the skills to incorporate some modern comforts into his strange home at a time when many people still had to contend with a single shared water source for an entire apartment. Soap, however, was another matter- while several vials of variously colored oils and balms sat about the tub, without the addition of floral labeling espousing the virtues of smelling like a fresh summer's day in Tahiti, Claire had no idea what was supposed to be what. She smelled them all one by one, and eventually settled on bathing in something that smelled vaguely like lemons- maybe? Her only hope was that it was, in fact, to wash one's self, and not the floor.

Either way, the bath was greatly refreshing, and when she stepped out of the steamy water and into a soft towel a half an hour later, she nearly felt as though she had been reborn on a new plane of existence. Eyeing the dirty clothes rumpled on the ground in front of her, she decided against slipping them back on in the hopes that there might be something a little fresher to wear - even something so basic as a dressing gown, as awkward as that might be when it came time to talk to her impersonal host once more.

It was with great relief then, as she stepped back into the Louis-Phillipe room, that she heard the strains of despairing organ music thrumming through the walls around her. It seemed to her that a great musical genius like Erik might lose himself in his music for hours, giving her ample time to at least try to figure out the clothes situation. Eyeing a large armoire in the corner, Claire made her way to it and swung open the doors - only to be met with a collection of slightly musty gowns, corsets, and other indecipherable pieces of clothing.

" _Okay,"_ Claire thought to herself, " _We put on 'Little Women' in high school. I had to wear this nonsense then, I can figure it out now."_ She pulled down a dress that was both fairly simple and actually colorful, as most of the dresses were varying shades of grey and black - an odd thing to have a collection of, to be sure. But it seemed the flowered blue dress wasn't the only piece of the ensemble needed to make the outfit work - there ended up being multiple pieces to the dress itself, and the wardrobe had several sets of corsets, chemises, and other underpinnings. Completely at a loss, Claire simply threw on a pair of stockings, loosely tied a corset around her (was it supposed to be this stabby? Was she meant to put something underneath it?) and fitted the dress onto herself as well as possible. Examining herself in a compact mirror from her makeup kit, she supposed she might pass for a Victorian lady in her own time, but was certain she was doing multiple things wrong - and she wasn't about to ask Erik for help on this.

Claire sighed. Well, if she did end up stuck here for an extended period of time, maybe she could sneak upstairs and spy in the performers getting ready backstage to get a better idea of what she was supposed to do with these piles of linen. At least for now she was dressed and clean- if a bit uncomfortable.

Content for the time being, Claire returned to the drawing room and cast about for something to do. While the large shelves separating the two sections of the room we covered with books- and more books sat on shelves inlaid about the drawing room itself, interspersed with musical scores, notebooks, and various art supplies- Claire found that most of them were in French. Now, she had in fact taken just a bit of French in high school, but only enough to recognize every third word or so, and certainly not enough to read a book or carry on a conversation. Perhaps it would help though to try and read through some French- she might actually learn simply from immersion.

With this thought, Claire picked up a book at random, settled herself onto the lounge and started to mentally sound out the words. After two minutes, she set it back down. Impossible.

"Ah well," she lamented quietly to herself. "I never was any good with languages. I suppose I'll just have to get Erik to help me if I need to talk to anyone else."

As if in response, the music floating about her suddenly grew raucous and angry, pounding through the walls with fury. "Well fine then, never mind," Claire muttered, giggling lightly to herself. Letting the music wash over her, she yawned and stretched, settling further into the soft cushions of the lounge. Though the angry music might keep some on edge, to Claire it just reminded her of her edgy early teen days- and falling asleep each night to the sound of death metal, much to her parents' chagrin. Within minutes she was snoozing gently, ensconced by pillows, and soon blanketed by the cat.

She awoke an unknown amount of time later to a dimmed and silent house. Stretching and looking around in confusion, she noted that most of the lights had been turned off save for a single oil lamp which had been placed on a small end table next to the chaise lounge. Claire lifted the lamp from the table and held it aloft, casting a warm orange glow across the room. The cat was now napping on a plush cushion on the far side of the room, but there was no sign of Erik.

Claire pushed herself to her feet and made her way slowly and sleepily across the room. A clock mounted atop a bookshelf indicated it was only about 3:00, though she supposed she may have slept continuously through the night and into the early hours of the morning- it was impossible to tell without a window. She certainly didn't feel as though she had gotten more than a few hours of sleep, however.

She would have to ask Erik to be certain, but when she tested the door to his room it was firmly locked. Probably for the best, anyway- if she had walked in on him sleeping, she was sure it would've incited his wrath. It was still frustrating, however. Peering back around the drawing room, Claire looked for any other clue as to how long she had slept and where Erik might be.

It was then that she spotted a scrap of paper on the table next to where the oil lamp had been sitting. Claire picked it up and found a hastily scribbled note from Erik: "Gone out. Will return by evening." The handwriting was simply awful, and Claire couldn't keep a slight smirk off her face - the artistic and mathematical genius had even worse handwriting than she had. Well, at least now she had some sort of expectation as to when to see Erik again.

With nothing more to do, Claire carefully made her way around the dim room and turned the lamps back on, bringing a semblance of cheeriness back to the decorated dungeon around her. So doing, she settled back into the chaise lounge with a new book - in her native English this time - and started reading to stave off the boredom. As she started to lose herself in the text, however, one anxious realization began to nudge at the back of her mind - though she was sure she had entered Erik's house from the wall directly opposite her, even with the lights on full - _the door was completely invisible._

If Erik weren't to return - for whatever reason - Claire would almost certainly be trapped.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite Claire's fears, Erik did in fact return that evening. His arrival was signaled by an electric bell which buzzed piercingly through the small house before being interrupted by the loud grinding of stone on stone. Claire stared unblinkingly as the wall opposite her spot on the lounge slowly recessed and swung outward, but she could see no mechanism by which it opened - she would have to have Erik show her how to operate it, if he even would. She got the impression that he preferred to keep his secrets _extremely_ close to the chest.

As it turned out, he had run several errands while out, and as he entered the house once more Claire saw that he was carrying a small collection of parcels. Noticing Claire's curious expression, he spread the string-tied packages across a low table a few feet away from the lounge, nodding as if to indicate they were intended for her.

"Clothing," he said in response to her puzzled silence. "It would seem that clothing is… simpler in the future than it is now. These outfits may not be fashionable, but should be more to your liking." Claire felt an uncomfortable heat creep into her cheeks. She must have looked more out of place in this musty old dress than she realized - and, of course, she hadn't even asked.

"Thank you," she replied, staring at the ground in utter embarrassment. "You really didn't need to."

"Believe me, mademoiselle," he responded, almost scathingly, "I really did."

Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Claire snatched the packages from the table and escaped to the Louis-Phillipe room to tear them open. Inside were an assortment of what she would call blouses, and thick, floor-length skirts, none of which seemed to need any extra layers to wear properly. They were elegant in their own right, though nowhere near as extravagant or voluminous as the dresses stashed away in the wardrobe - it made sense, surely not everyone could afford such luxurious outfits, to say nothing of the hassle that would come with carrying around so many layers while going about one's daily work.

Slipping out of the musty blue dress and corset, Claire breathed a sigh of relief. After a few minutes of experimenting, she found herself comfortably dressed in an off-white blouse with a high neckline and a tiered blue skirt. She was fairly certain things weren't quite right - the skirt hadn't draped quite right at first, but she found a pair of long, rather puffy pants in the wardrobe that helped fill it out, and while she dispensed with the corset in favor of her own bra, the blouse was too rough to wear without a chemise.

This era was going to be the death of her.

However, as she patted down the clothing and made sure it was arranged correctly, she felt immediately more comfortable and authentic. Yes, she thought, this would do nicely.

* * *

The next few days settled into an odd routine. Claire spent much of her time alone, as Erik seemed to prefer either composing in solitude or wandering off to who knows where for hours at a time. Claire, for her part, had never felt so bored or lonely in her life, and tried to make the best of it by passing the time reading, practicing the piano and singing - when alone of course, her rusty skills were too much of an embarrassment to showcase for Erik again - and playing with the cat, whose name she learned was Coralie. She reveled in every game of hunt, chase, or fetch Claire came up with, and quickly became a beacon of light in her suddenly very solitary life.

To Erik's credit, when he was around he started to spend some time helping Claire sort out the intricacies of living in the small apartment under the opera. At Claire's request, he explained which of the numerous vials in the bathroom were best for bathing, which were for using in one's hair, and which were merely perfumes - Claire was relieved to find that the lemony scented oil she had previously used was in fact an exquisite bath oil Erik had acquired in one of his travels. He also showed her how to use the kitchen, which ended up being a bit of a learning curve after years of relying on easy electrical stoves, refrigerators, and dishwashers. The one thing he seemed reluctant to teach her was how to work the front door - but he did promise that should she ever want to venture out, he would be more than willing to escort her out into the bustling streets of Paris.

Still though, the days were wearyingly dull, so when Erik emerged from his solitude with a flourish a few days into Claire's stay, laptop glowing with life in his arms, Claire nearly screamed in delight. He had jury-rigged a strange contraption to the plug end of the charger, which fitted neatly into a lamp's socket when the bulb was removed. It seemed haphazard, but it did the trick - and once Claire had daisy-chained her phone into the laptop via the USB charger, everything seemed to just fall into place.

While she couldn't sate her need for validation on social media, the contents of the laptop were enough to keep her busy for nearly a lifetime. A frequent flyer for her job, Claire had long since loaded the computer with dozens of movies from all genres and eras, thousands of hours of music, and a solid library of games, both time-wasters and serious RPGs alike. As she nestled into the chaise lounge with her earbuds in and let the opening chords of her "Relax" playlist wash over her, she felt herself settle into a contentment she hadn't felt since her last night in modern Paris.

It was then that she felt the looming presence of her host behind her.

Startled, she turned to see Erik standing just a few feet away. He had been sweeping back and forth across the house as she was setting everything up, and now Claire understood why. Though she couldn't see his expression under the black silk mask, she could sense both how insatiably curious he was, and how reticent he was to approach her. She would have to be the one to extend an invitation.

"Yes, Erik?" Claire asked, trying to sound as friendly and inviting as possible. She had learned over the past few days that Erik could be hypersensitive to the slightest tone of annoyance or hostility - even perceived. If the fictional story of his life held any weight, it made sense - Erik must be carrying around a veritable boatload of trauma and emotional baggage, to say nothing of a lifetime of starvation from human contact.

He gestured at the laptop, his thin, pale hand shaking almost imperceptibly. "Show me," he said. Claire fought herself from drawing back in shock - he sounded as if strangled.

Instead she stood, pulled the low table toward the lounge, and set up the laptop where they would both be able to see it. Then, tucking her skirt neatly around her legs as she sat back down, Claire gestured for Erik to sit next to her. "Alright, join me," she said.

Erik hesitated, then stiffly walked around the lounge and sat at the edge, putting as much space between the two of them as possible while still being able to see the screen. Claire sighed internally, but simply pulled the laptop closer to the edge so it would be easier to work with while maintaining her distance - interacting with Erik could almost be like living with a feral cat.

"Well," she said, "what would you like to see?"

Erik hesitated as though he had expected her to take the lead. "How-" he stammered, "how does it work?"

Of course! The first question he asked was going to be the most impossible to answer. Claire was by no means uncomfortable with computers, whether it be using them for basic work purposes or digging into the software to fix issues, add mods to games, or break the default settings because they were interfering with a program. But when it came to the actual hardware - the memory chips, the motherboard, hell, the basic coding language - she was almost as much of a beginner as Erik.

"Well…" she began slowly, "you should know first that I'm not a computer engineer. I've never really looked into how to build these things or make them run, but I know a bit of the history. You're familiar with a Jacquard loom, yes?"

"Of course," Erik replied confidently. "Most of today's more exquisite fabrics would be impossible to create without it."

"Right!" Claire said. "And are you familiar with Charles Babbage and his, uh… Analytical Engine, I think he called it?"

"Yes, though less so than the Jacquard loom."

"Well, it worked on the same principals - that one could use punch cards fed into a machine to perform calculations without the use of a more analog tool, like- like an abacus, I guess?"

"Or a slide rule, I imagine. We do have tools more sophisticated than those used for simple counting and addition."

Claire felt her cheeks warm slightly in embarrassment. "Of course. I'm not very familiar, though - in my time, we mostly just use computers, unless you have a more specialized job I suppose."

"I see," Erik responded cooly. "In any case, I didn't see any punch cards that you would use with this machine. Are they stored inside of it?"

"Well… sort of." Claire frowned, unsure how best to explain the computer's memory to him. "Basically, over time, computer engineers figured out how to store memory on smaller and smaller cards, in different formats, and how to automate the whole process once the computer was put together. I mean, that's a super simplified version of what actually happened, but the too long, didn't read is that the first computers were the size of this entire room - or bigger. My computer is far more powerful - like, millions of times more powerful - and it fits into this nice compact case."

Erik reached toward the machine and ran one spindly finger down the edge of the screen. "I'd be very interested to see how everything is put together," he mumbled.

Claire pulled her laptop closer to herself. "Oh no you don't. This baby has my entire movie, music and book collection stored on it, not to mention dozens of personal art projects. You take her apart, I will _kill_ you."

Erik's gaze snapped from the computer to meet her eyes, startling Claire slightly - it was the first time he had held eye contact with her for more than a brief flicker, and she could just barely make out the golden hue of his eyes behind the dark mask. " _Music?_ " he breathed reverently. "This device contains _music?_ "

Claire smiled, slightly amused at his sudden wonder. "Well yes. I was just about to listen to some Cranberries - you want to listen?"

"Yes!" The excitement in Erik's voice sounded almost unnatural coming from such a morose figure, and Claire wondered how infrequently the man had experienced anything beyond pain and loneliness. She also noted how quick his emotions could swing and made a mental note to find her ebook copy of Leroux's original novel - certainly Andrew Lloyd Webber's phantom had had some violent mood swings, but it wouldn't hurt to suss out exactly what she might be dealing with if she had to stay here for an extended period of time.

No matter for now, however. Claire smirked and unplugged her headphones, letting the music fill the room. As the opening strains of "Linger" started back up again, she felt Erik shift next to her from nervously excited to awestruck.

"It's so… simple," he breathed. "But so different, so captivating. This is what music from the future is like?"

"Well, some of it. This is on the more gentle side, but there's a whole range of different types of music out there - Jazz, rock, metal, show tunes, pop, rap - I could go on for ages. But I don't need to tell you this, there's plenty of different musical styles in your time as well, it's just easier in the future to _find_ so many different types of music."

"I want to hear all of it," Erik demanded. "I need to know more about these different styles."

"Well, I can't play _all_ of it for you, I only have my own collection, and even that would take ages to go through. But I can certainly take you on a musical tour of the 20th century. If you're going to be joining me in my own time, you might as well know a bit about our music. Movies too, come to think of it."

Before she could react, Erik had gripped her hand in his own in a vice-like grip. "Please," he rasped, staring at her with a terrifying intensity. "Please show me."

Claire chuckled nervously. "Okay," she quavered. "I guess we can start with some early Jazz. But uh, Erik?"

"Yes?"

"You're squeezing my hand a bit too tight, and I need it to use the computer."

In response, he dropped her hand and stared at his own as though he hadn't realized what he was doing. Shaking it off, Claire turned her attention back to the computer and started going through her music library. Then, Erik at her side as her unexpected pupil, she began to teach him about life over the next 140 years through music, movie, and literature.

* * *

As could be expected, Erik was an extremely quick study. While Claire herself was no slouch, books which took her a few days took Erik a few hours. A song he heard only once could instantly be repeated both vocally and on the piano instantly - Claire quickly grew to regret introducing him to the works of Britney Spears after several hours of variations upon "Toxic." Upon introducing him to visual media (and going through another lengthy explanation of how film turned into silent films and later full color, full sound movies), Erik quickly started binging through as many films and TV shows as he had time for - Claire was almost glad they couldn't get Netflix. It was like watching a snowball chaotically gathering mass and speed as it rolled down a sheer mountain face.

Somehow, in all this, he still found time to devote to quietly slipping off with no explanation, though he only left for an hour or two at a time now, preferring to stay in and surround himself with more song and story. The awkward routine they had established over the first few days living together quickly shifted, finding Claire and Erik spending more time together, discussing life in the 1880's vs the 2010's, sharing films and stories and technology.

After a few days of this new routine, Erik emerged from his room one evening visibly buzzing with excitement. He had a large satchel with him, as well as Claire's own clothes, cleaned and ready to wear. He handed them to her, receiving a blank look of confusion in return.

"I have made the necessary preparations for an excursion tonight," he explained. "When you are ready, I have a carriage waiting to transport us to the catacombs. Should we find a path that leads back to your own time, I believe you'll be more comfortable in your own clothing as well.."

Claire gaped at him. "I mean, you're not wrong - I just didn't expect we'd be making the trip quite so soon."

"The longer we wait, the more likely it is you'll forget the path you took through the catacombs on your trip here. Though I'm certain I have much more to learn about the future, it only makes sense to strike while the iron is hot."

Claire shrugged and nodded in agreement, then retired to the Louis-Phillipe room to change. It was strange, she mused to herself as she slipped into her own clothes. She had only been here a little over a week, but it seemed so much longer. If they really could find their way back, it was going to be disorienting to come back to a world of lights and chaotic noise after these last several days in the hushed cavern that belonged to her eccentric hermit of a housemate.

Sadly, the best laid plans of mice and men _do_ often go awry.

They made their way across Paris under cover of darkness, Claire reveling in the cool fresh air after days underground. When they arrived at their destination, Erik paid the coachman a generous sum and sent him off, allowing the two of them to slip unseen into the tunnels beneath their feet. At her direction, Erik led Claire to the main entrance - the one she had emerged from several nights before, and then fell behind her as she began to retrace her steps.

It wasn't long before she realized that something was wrong.

It hadn't been a long trip from the odd, narrow tunnel she had originally hoped would lead her back to civilization to the staircase which had led her into 1880's Paris, but as they passed the staircase now, she could see that, in fact, there was no tunnel - only the outline of a narrow archway in the stone wall, bricked off with yet more stone that by all appearances had been there as long as the tunnel itself. She reached out to it in dismay, willing the wall to melt away and let them return to Claire's own time, but her hand met only cold, unyielding stone.

Erik stared at Claire as tears began to well up in her eyes and splash over her cheeks. "It was here," she wailed softly, letting her hand fall back to her side. "This is the tunnel I went through, I'm sure of it… and now it's gone. I… I don't know what to do!"

Erik shifted awkwardly - he had no idea how to comfort a crying woman, let alone one who was in such an odd predicament. Instead, he extended a hand forward and rapped on the wall - it sounded oddly solid behind the bricks, considering how much it looked like a tunnel had once existed here - and peering further down the hallway, he could see no indication of other passages like this one. His insides bubbled with frustration and sheer disappointment - he would have to return to his original, far less than perfect plans.

He cleared his throat, interrupting Claire's sobbing. "Well," he said at last, his tone carefully measured, "it seems that whatever mechanism led you here is no longer functioning. There may yet be another way to return you to the future, but I suggest we return to my house before someone discovers us here."

Claire looked at him, unsure. "I can still stay with you then? Even without a way to bring you to the future?"

"Of course. I told you when we first met that my morals would not allow me to see you on your own in the streets of Paris. And…" He trailed off and looked away, unsure how to continue.

"And?" Claire prompted, her tears slowing to a halt.

"And I have come to enjoy… learning of all the wonders you have shown and described to me. I should miss that greatly were you to leave."

Claire nodded, smiling slightly. Unless she were very much losing it, that was about as close to Erik admitting he enjoyed her company as it got. And though he remained cool and aloof on their journey home, she was sure she could also sense the beginning of a rapport forming between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for the kudos! I've had some extra time to write recently, and have a few chapters mostly ready to go beyond this one. Stay tuned! ^^


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on this chapter! Quarantine depression hit me pretty hard and kinda killed my ability to get anything done outside of my job and Netflix binging. Working on adjusting to the relative isolation though, will do my best to get at least the next few chapters on a more regular basis!

The next three days passed quietly. Though Claire had thought she felt a slight bond growing between the two of them, Erik seemed to pull away over the days that followed, preferring to return to his usual activities of hiding in his room, composing long laments on the organ, and disappearing for hours to presumably haunt the opera house.

Slipping back into loneliness, Claire found herself spending more and more time alone in the Louis-Phillipe room. On the plus side, with her laptop and phone now working, she at least had plenty to occupy her time. Whenever she found herself safely alone, she dove into her ebook copy of Phantom of the Opera, which she had carefully renamed in the file settings so as not to draw Erik's attention should he decide to snoop through her phone. However, the book only helped inform Erik's personality and behavior to a small extent, and without having a clear idea when the events of the book took place, she was unable to place herself in relation to the timeline - she knew only from Erik himself that she had arrived in late January of 1884.

On the third day after returning from the catacombs, Claire entered the drawing room to find Erik furiously tidying things up around her. Absorbed in meticulously cleaning the dust from his bookshelves, he didn't even seem to notice her presence. Shrugging, she made her way to the kitchen to whip up some eggs for breakfast.

The rest of the day was just as strange. Erik made not one, but three trips out of the house, returning more disheveled and distressed each time. The second time he returned home, Claire emerged from the Louis-Phillipe room to find him decorating the drawing room with baskets and ribbons. The final trip saw him festooning the entire room with enormous bundles of overpoweringly fragrant flowers, so much that Claire had to repeatedly leave the room to clear her head.

"Erik," she asked finally, returning from splashing the umpteenth dose of cold water on her face, "what is it you're doing, exactly?"

He spun around to stare at her, his expression inscrutable under the silk black mask. In answer, he simply gestured at the flowers and sputtered, as though that was all the explanation needed. Sighing in mild annoyance and feeling yet another wave of headache, Claire retired once again to the Louis-Phillipe room, determined not to deal with whatever madness had taken over.

Not long after this encounter, Claire heard the rumbling of stone scraping over stone once more, and checked the drawing room to find Erik gone once more and the lights dimmed. This time, he did not return for quite awhile, and Claire took the opportunity to make her way through another chapter of her book - she had just gotten to the part where Raoul followed Christine to Perros.

Another few hours later, Claire heard the door open and shut once more. Ignoring it, she continued reading - if Erik wanted to talk, he could come to her and explain what was going on. Oddly enough, however, she _could_ hear him talking from the other room. Setting her phone and laptop on the bed, she crept closer to the door to listen.

From the drawing room, she could hear Erik speaking rapidly in French. Whether he was talking to himself or not, at first she could not tell. As she strained her ears to hear what was happening, she heard suddenly what sounded like a woman crying, and then Erik, slowly and deliberately:

"C'est vrai, Christine! Je ne suis ni ange, ni génie, ni fantôme… Je suis Erik!"

Christine! Her eyes widening in sudden understanding, Claire burst through the door and into the drawing room. The scene in front of her was like something from a soap opera- Erik was kneeling in front of the chaise lounge as though about to propose, though he had frozen, staring at Claire as she entered. In front of him was a young woman with flaxen hair and rosy cheeks stained with tears. She looked both utterly miserable and wretchedly confused.

Claire strode into the room, determined to take some control of the situation. "Erik," she demanded as she approached him, "Who exactly is this? Why have you brought her here?"

Erik stuttered in response. "Claire, this- this is Christine. She is my guest here."

Christine sat forward and rubbed her eyes, staring at Claire in amazement. "Excuse me, Madame," she said in clear but slightly stilted English, "you are from England?"

"America, actually," Claire responded. "My name is Claire, it's lovely to meet you Christine."

"Ah! It is lovely to meet you as well. Then, are you Erik's wife?"

Claire's mouth dropped in surprise at the question, dumbfounded at the unexpected nature of the question - but of course Christine would assume this, for why else would an unrelated man and woman cohabitate alone in this era? For his part, Erik let out a strangled moan and stumbled backwards.

Shaking her head to clear her confusion, Claire smiled at Christine and sighed in a mixture of amusement and frustration. "No, I am Erik's guest here, just as you are." She glanced at Erik and, despite the mask, got the strong impression that he was glaring daggers at her. Christine didn't seem to notice. She continued, choosing her words with care. "I am sure you will find Erik to be a very… _gracious_ host. And if there is anything you need, please let me know."

"I will Madame, thank you."

"And Erik," Claire fixed him with as neutral a look as she could, not wanting to concern their young guest, "We _will_ talk later. I'll be in the other room."

Turning on her heel, she swept back into the Louis-Phillipe room, closed the door gently, and slumped against it while groaning in quiet exasperation. While she knew this had been a possibility, she wasn't thrilled at finding out that she had managed to land right in the middle of events. And while she hadn't yet reached the point in the book that detailed what was yet to happen, she vaguely recalled how things would certainly spiral out of control from here.

There was only one thing to do - after carefully tucking the laptop well out of sight, she returned to reading the book on her phone, feverishly swiping through the pages as fast as she could. Before too long however, a delicate and sorrowful tune floated into the room, on a harp. As the music picked up, she heard Erik's magnificent voice joining the melody, and she found herself fighting to keep her eyes open.

Tucking the phone into her pocket in frustration, she returned once more to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. All thoughts of building a stronger rapport with Erik were out of her head, her focus turned entirely to protecting Christine from the violent mood swings of their host - and she couldn't very well do that if she were to succumb to her own exhaustion and the gentle lullaby that permeated the air around her.

Hearing the bedroom door open, she returned to find Erik carrying a very much unconscious Christine - it seemed the hypnotic melody had worked on at least one of them. He laid her gently on the bed, taking great care to ensure that she was arranged comfortably on the plush pillows.

"Erik," Claire whispered, just loud enough to capture his attention without waking the young woman. His gaze snapped to hers again, but this time he seemed less furious and more… broken. "Erik, what on earth are you doing?"

Erik slumped. "I love her Claire," he whispered reverently. "She is the only light in this dreadful… the only light in my life. I brought her here to tell her this."

Claire looked back at the sleeping Christine. "I see," she murmured. "I must say, I'm disappointed in the route you've taken. But she clearly needs her sleep now - I'll stay with her and make sure she's okay when she wakes."

Erik simply nodded and slunk from the room like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Claire sighed and sat on a sofa across the bed from Christine, keeping a watchful eye on her charge.

Christine slept for the next several hours, during which time Claire found herself also drifting in and out of slumber. When she awoke fully, she found Christine standing by the wall, sobbing in despair at the unpleasant situation she had suddenly found herself in. Claire could feel her heart breaking for the young woman, and she quickly pulled herself together to see to her needs.

Moving toward the bed, she smoothed out the rumpled comforter and sat down, inviting Christine to sit with her. The young woman sobbed and fairly threw herself onto the bed, clinging to Claire with an unexpected ferocity. Taken slightly aback, Claire froze at first, then laid one hand on her back in comfort, gently rubbing her shoulders in circles as she wept.

"Shhhh," she murmured quietly. "Shhhh, it's okay, I'm here, you're okay."

Slowly the sobs wracking Christine's body calmed and quieted, and before long she was sitting up straight again, drying her eyes with the backs of her hands.

"Oh!" she finally gasped. "Oh Miss Claire, what have I done to find myself here? How could this man be the voice? I trusted him!"

Claire had gotten up to find a handkerchief for Christine, and now returned with one to the bed, handing it to the distraught young lady. "You can't blame yourself," she said comfortingly. "I'm sure you've done nothing wrong - why don't you tell me what's happened?"

Christine dabbed the cloth gently at her eyes and nodded, swallowing hard before beginning her story.

"It was three months ago," she started, her voice quavering. "He came to me while I was in my dressing room, but only as the voice! I thought- I thought he was an angel, sent by my father in heaven to bring me music- and he did! I was only a chorus girl at the time, but somehow he elevated my voice to heights I didn't know were possible. But it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I sang for the world…"

"But somehow, I found myself filling in for Carlotta, who had taken ill- I don't know why they chose me, but I sang in her place… but after that they sent me back to the choir. And then, after Carlotta sang again last night…" she trailed off, clearly unsure how to explain what had happened.

"He brought you here?" Claire prompted.

"Yes! But Miss Claire, I don't understand how. I was in my dressing room - and then I was not! And the voice was gone, instead there was a man… instead there was - Erik! He took me down to this strange house, and then… well, that's when you came in." Christine broke off with a sob as tears sprung anew to her eyes. "He told me he loves me! I don't even know him, how could this happen?"

She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes as she began crying again. She slowly collected herself again and turned to Claire.

"Did he take you here, too?" she asked, her eyes imploring and miserable at once. Claire shook her head.

"No," she replied. "Well, not exactly. I was vacationing here in Paris, and found myself suddenly penniless and with no way to get home. Erik found me and offered a place to stay."

"Then you are not his prisoner?"

Claire bit her lip. "Not exactly - though I'm afraid I don't know the way out of here. The only time I've left since I arrived was with Erik, and he hasn't shown me how to let myself out, let alone how to get back to the opera house safely. I can promise you though that as long as you are here, I'll make sure you're safe."

Christine leaned forward and embraced her, trembling. "You are very kind, Claire," she said tremulously. "I was very much afraid that I was alone here - but I am very happy you are here with me, even if we are both trapped."

Claire returned the embrace, wrapping her arms around Christine affectionately. "Me too," she responded. "I'd hate to think of you alone here, with only Erik for company… and I'm so relieved you know English!"

Christine smiled shyly. "Oh yes, my dear father was very insistent I learn English alongside French - he was sure it would be useful in the future, and I suppose he was quite right!"

Claire opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment there were three taps on the door, and it opened to reveal Erik carrying several boxes. He strode silently into the room and began arranging them on the bed, speaking to neither of the two women.

As Claire watched, she noticed a strange fury come over Christine. In an instant, she transformed from the sweet naive angel Claire had come to know into a snarling coyote. She jumped to her feet with an angry flourish and began berating Erik in a furious mix of English and French. Claire had to look away to hide her smile - maybe Christine wouldn't need any protection from her after all.

As Christine's tirade continued, Claire watched Erik carefully. To the casual observer, it would seem as though he weren't even slightly fazed by the string of admonishments and insults being flung at him; but Claire could see his hands shaking almost imperceptibly, and she knew he was internalizing every word, letting every hateful word add to the mountain of self-loathing she had come to realize rested upon his shoulders. Perhaps that was enough, he certainly understood how angry Christine was now. Claire moved to interrupt, but Christine's rant had slowed to a finish:

"And take off your mask, if you truly are an honest man and not some terrible fiend!"

This was too much for Erik. He spun around, seething at the accusation. However, when he responded his voice was calm.

"You shall never see Erik's face. But come now - it is 2:00 in the afternoon and I have lunch waiting." He crossed to the door and gestured to the two of them to join him in the drawing room. "You should be dressed and ready for the day - both of you." In response, Christine strode briskly to the door and slammed it in Erik's face, causing Claire to gasp in both shock and mild amusement.

Christine took several deep breaths and turned back to Claire, her face suddenly stricken with worry. "Oh Claire," she said shakily, "do you think he'll be mad? Oh, perhaps I shouldn't have done that. I was just so… so angry with him!"

Claire shook her head. "He might be," she responded, "but you're hardly the first woman in the world to slam the door on a man who has done her wrong, and you won't be the last. Why don't you take some time to freshen up though? The bathroom has some really lovely soaps and bath oils - I'll make sure Erik doesn't come back while you take some time for yourself."

Christine smiled stiffly and nodded, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later Claire heard the sound of running water behind the thick mahogany door, and she slipped quietly to the drawing room to confront Erik.

She found him preparing a lunch for two people - no doubt Christine and herself, given that Erik avoided eating around her and no doubt would avoid the same around Christine. They had never talked about it, but knowing what she knew of his story, many of Erik's mannerisms had a clear reasoning behind them.

She cleared her throat and stepped forward. Erik glanced up from his preparations and nodded slowly at Claire. She cleared her throat again and spoke.

"Really Erik, what the actual fuck?"

He dropped the knife he was holding in surprise - until now, Claire had avoided cursing around him out of politeness. The time for politeness was over.

"No, really - what the fuck were you thinking? You kidnapped a woman to tell her you love her? What kind of bullshit, asinine, moronic plan is that? You can't just go to her and confess your feelings like, I dunno, _every other guy in the world?"_

Erik didn't respond, still taken aback by the slew of expletives flowing from the mouth of the young lady who had lived with him the last week and a half. Claire, however, wasn't done.

"Seriously man - I was starting to really respect you. You gave me shelter and food, you helped me try and get back home - though you may have had ulterior motives. But when that didn't work you didn't kick me out like so many others would have. I thought, 'hey cool, this guy's alright for someone who lives in their own personal version of the batcave.' But noooooooo - you had to go and fuck all that straight to fucking hell by _kidnapping someone._ "

She paused to catch her breath, and Erik finally found his voice.

"It's only for five days, Claire, then I will return her. I only want her to know me as a man, not as her angel of music."

"I can understand that, dude. I get it. But there are much better ways to go about that than by _kidnapping them._ Like, I don't get how you go from, 'ah yes, I want to get to know this person better,' to 'guess I'd better _steal them_ from their _dressing room_ in the _middle of the goddamn night!_ '"

Erik slumped slightly and carried the two plates to the table, now laden with prawns and chicken wings and gently steaming with the scent of rosemary and thyme. "I did not know how else to approach her, Claire. I thought, should I try to introduce myself as a normal man would - she would simply run away! No woman has ever trusted me Claire, not when I must wear this mask."

"Then I suppose I don't count as a woman, then?"

Erik hesitated. "You are… different. You come from another time, I cannot speak to how trusting the women are past the year 2000. You have shown me movies and shows where people wear the most outlandish outfits - for all I know there are many people who go about their day wearing odd masks, hats, and other costumes simply because it is the fashion."

He had somewhat of a point.

"Be that as it may," Claire spat, "keeping Christine here as your prisoner is… horrible. I can't believe you've done this, after all your talk of your morals."

Erik cried out in distress at the accusation. "No!" he moaned. "She is not my prisoner, she is my guest! I promise you - both of you! In five days time I will accompany her back to the surface, and then she will be free to come and go as she pleases - just as you are!"

Claire rolled her eyes - it was little comfort when the trip to and from Erik's house was as treacherous as he had created it. "Fine. This conversation isn't over, by the way - but I'm getting a headache. I'm going to see how Christine is doing."

She returned to the Louis-Phillipe room to find Christine finishing up getting dressed for the day. She did look greatly refreshed, and there were no signs of tears left over on her rosy cheeks. She smiled brightly as Claire walked in.

"Miss Claire! Thank you for everything, I feel much better now."

"Good!" Claire chirped in return. "I'm glad to hear it - I think Erik is finishing up with lunch right now, it looks pretty tasty."

"Oh, wonderful. I must admit, I am quite hungry. Will you join us?"

Claire pondered for a moment. "I will, in a short while though. I need to freshen up as well."

Christine nodded knowingly, and headed out to the drawing room. Finally alone, Claire breathed a heavy sigh and headed to the bathroom, stripping her blouse and thick woolen skirt from the day before and allowing them to fall haphazardly across the bedroom floor as she walked.

She desperately needed a long, hot bath


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh whaaaaat? Two chapters in the same week? Perish the thought.
> 
> In all honesty, I wanted to get these two up in fairly short order, since events are being set into relatively quick motion now (as they were in the book, of course.) It's also a pretty major departure from where we were before - though not without reason. Anyway, I'll quit rambling now and just get on to the actual chapter.

Claire lounged back in the claw foot tub, immersed up to her chin in steaming water, swirling rose-scented oils, and mounds of bubbles. She had maybe overdone it with the bath products, but right now she needed it. Her mind was spinning with everything that had happened, and her emotions were running high.

She had really started to like and to trust Erik, even to the point of wondering if the Leroux novel had been completely fictionalized out of a real man's life. He was moody and distant, sure - but he had also been kind, funny, and even gentle. In their time exploring his world's future, they had laughed together, dissolved into fierce discussions, and started feeling out a potential friendship.

But how could she even trust him now? Not only had he committed the egregious act of kidnapping a vulnerable young woman, he hadn't trusted Claire enough to be honest with her either. Claire kept circling back around to one thought - if he really held any value for her, or for Christine, couldn't he have asked for Claire's support and advice in how to pursue a relationship with the young soprano? The 140 year difference in the cultures aside, it wasn't as if people had changed _that_ much when it came to matters of the heart. Surely the time they had spent watching modern movies and talking about the future in general had informed him of _that_.

Perhaps it was one of those Doctor Who things - a fixed point in time or whatnot. She wasn't super familiar with the idea, having only watched a few episodes at the insistence of a past girlfriend, but she gathered that the basic idea was that there were certain events that could only play out in one way, and no amount of meddling with the timeline would avert those events. Of course, that was science fiction, and this was reality - there was no real life precedent for what she was dealing with.

It did make a certain amount of sense though - it would explain why they hadn't been able to use the tunnel to get back to Claire's own time. Hell, maybe she was _supposed_ to be here, and her presence in this time would somehow ensure that events played out as they were meant to. Would that be a paradox? By knowing the story ahead of time and trying to interfere, she would actually help set the events of the story in motion?

This wasn't helping her headache at all.

Anyway, she knew that Erik had been secretly tutoring Christine well before she arrived in this time. This raised another huge question though - if Erik had already fallen in love with Christine and planned to bring her here all along, why would he want to escape to the future? Why would he risk travelling to a completely different world when it might mean he had to leave his love behind?

The water was cooling now, and the mountains of bubbles were dissolving away into the water, leaving only an oily sheen across the surface. Claire sighed and pulled herself out of the bath, reaching for a towel. She had just entered the bedroom and begun towelling her hair dry when she heard a terrible scream and an answering roar from the other room.

Fuck.

Dropping the hair towel, she raced to the armoire, searching for something quick and easy to throw on. Even the most simple of the skirts and blouses that Erik had purchased for her were too complex to deal with quickly - but there, in the back of the wardrobe, was a basic dressing gown, little more than a bathrobe. She grabbed it, wrapped herself up as modestly as possible without the use of a mirror to guide her, and dashed into the drawing room, terrified of what she might find.

As it turned out, she was right to make such haste. Across the room, in front of the piano, was a scene straight out of a horror movie. Erik stood with his back to her with Christine on the floor in front of him, her face stricken with terror. In each hand he held one of her delicate wrists in a vice-like grip; Claire could see even from her spot next to the bedroom door that her hands were white from loss of circulation - except for the tips of her fingers, which were red with blood. Christine's? Erik's? She could not tell. And the mask - Erik's mask lay on the floor at his feet.

"ERIK!" Claire bellowed. "Let her GO! NOW!" Erik, startled by the sudden intrusion and explosion of sound, dropped Christine's hands and spun around to face her. Somehow, fueled by righteous anger, Claire managed to keep her composure as she saw Erik's face for the first time.

He looked nothing like the images of the Phantom she had come to know through pop culture. There was no twisting of flesh on one side of his face a la the musical, nor the exaggerated stretching of features as from the silent film. He looked more like a zombie or vampire - or some combination thereof. The dark shadows she had seen around his eyes previously were indeed not created by the cover of the mask, but by the natural dark hollows around his eyes themselves. Even without the mask, Claire could only just make out where his eyes sat and the golden yellow tint of his irises she had previously noticed. His skin was so ashen it was almost grey in color, and stretched tight over high, sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline, causing his cheeks to sink deep into the sides of his face. And his nose - well, he had no nose at all, as if the cartilage had simply never formed there, leaving him with a dark hole in the middle of his face.

But this was no time to gawk or sputter. Claire swept gracefully across the room, helped scoop Christine to her feet, and ushered her back into the Louis-Phillipe room, where she had to be guided to the bed. This time there were no tears, only the hushed horror that radiated from Christine and permeated the air around the two of them. She stared at her hands as if she did not know them, stunned by the blood that stained around her nails. Claire said nothing, but went to the bathroom for a washcloth and a bowl of hot water

Sitting next to her new friend, Claire took one pale hand in her own and began washing the blood away. Thankfully, it didn't seem that she had any injuries, so she assumed that the blood was Erik's - though she couldn't imagine Christine attacking him, no matter how horrified she had been.

As she started washing her other hand, a faint whisper spilled from Christine's lips. Claire paused her ministrations and looked up at the girl in front of her. Her face was still white with fear, and her eyes were dancing back and forth as if seeking desperately for some comfort in a world which had suddenly turned dark and cold, but she had definitely spoken.

"What's that, dear?" Claire asked softly.

"I… I didn't know," she whispered again, more audibly this time.

"It's okay, neither did I," Claire responded, returning to her task. "Christine, I need to know if he hurt you."

Christine scrunched up her face and shook her head. "No. Well, my wrists, a bit - but no, I don't think so."

Claire set the now-soiled washcloth on the ground and moved down to check Christine's wrists. The young woman flinched in mild pain as she gently squeezed them to check for injury, but overall they seemed okay.

"Well, I don't think anything's broken, at least," said Claire. "You might bruise a bit though, it seems like he grabbed you pretty hard. Where did all that blood come from though?"

Christine stared at her in horror. "Erik - he… he held my hands and made me claw at his face. He said-" she broke off and shook her head, swallowing hard as if to suppress a wave of nausea. "He said I should try to tear his face off, like it was another mask. Oh Claire, I am sure he will never let us go now! Not now that we know what a monster he truly is!"

Claire pulled Christine's hands together and held them gently in her own. "No, Christine - he's only a man. A man who, admittedly, has done some monstrous things in the past few days. I know you're frightened, but you need to hang on. If you lose yourself to fear, it will be that much harder to find a way out of here. Anyway, I still think we can handle this rationally - and if Erik can't deal with that now, _I'll_ find a way to break you out of here."

As she spoke, a great anguished sound poured through the house, a long, painful lament of organ music that swam through the air around them. Claire, who had already heard some of Erik's most pained and sorrowful music, simply kept checking over Christine for any other bumps or bruises, but Christine began sobbing along with the music itself.

"Oh, goodness," she gasped. "That must be his Don Juan Triumphant. Oh, it's horrible! Beautiful, yes - but awful!" Claire nodded in faked agreement and made a mental note to never introduce Christine to Death Metal.

They then lapsed into silence for a period of time, just listening to the wailing strains of Erik's composition. As she listened, Claire realized that she could recognize some of the themes from the piece, and that it was one Erik had played several times before. She hadn't known the name of it before - though of course she recognized the title from the musical version of Phantom. Erik's original composition, however, sounded nothing like Andrew Lloyd Webber's later attempt at a recreation.

After some time, Claire looked down and realized that Christine was snoozing quietly, probably after passing out from shock and exhaustion. Gently removing her hand from Christine's she slipped back into the bathroom to fetch her first aid kit from a cabinet next to the sink, and then stole from the room, making her way across the house. The mask still lay on the ground where Christine had presumably dropped it, and where Erik had left it as he took his flight back to his own room. The door, usually closed up tightly, was ever so slightly ajar - possibly out of hope that Christine would return, or simply because he had neglected to latch it in his despair.

Claire opened the door and took her first look at the room which had so far been a mystery to her. Of course - it was decorated entirely in black, from the wall hangings to the upholstery on the furniture. The only exception were huge decorations of sheet music and a red canopy, which surrounded a coffin - clearly where Erik slept. But she wasn't here to sightsee - Claire cleared her throat to announce her presence. Slamming his hands down onto the keys, Erik spun around in a rage.

"AH!" he bellowed, "back to gawk at the monster?! Here to stare at my loathsome ugliness and sate your curiosity?! God knows _Christine_ couldn't stop herself from ripping my mask away, I'm surprised _you_ lasted as long as you did! I see now - you were just _waiting_ for something like this to happen so you could see for yourself!"

Claire huffed in annoyance and rolled her eyes. "God, just - just shut up, Erik," she said as she stepped forward.

Erik rose from his seat, drawing himself up to his full height - more than a head taller than Claire. " _WHAT DID YOU SAY?_ "

Claire stopped short and stared him down - no mean feat from a foot below him. "I said, _SHUT UP!_ " she shouted back. "Erik. Just _stop._ I am in NO mood to deal with this drama. Over the past 18 hours I have had to bring Christine down from two separate panic attacks - first because you kidnapped her, and then because you terrorized her. And no, whether or not she started it by taking your mask doesn't matter - that's NOT an excuse for how you reacted. I had to sleep on the couch, I realistically only got about 5 hours of actual sleep, I haven't eaten since yesterday, and my headache - which, might I remind you, only started because you filled up the drawing room with a metric fuck-tonne of lilies - is _very quickly_ turning into a _MIGRAINE._ So do yourself a favor, stop acting like the world revolves around you, and _sit back down_ so I can make sure you're okay."

To her surprise, Erik actually did so, his rage draining from his face to be replaced with shock. Feeling her own blood pressure drop slightly, Claire grabbed a bench from in front of a nearby table and pulled it closer to the organ, setting herself up a foot or two away from him.

"Okay," she said, setting her first aid kit on her lap but not yet opening it. "This is better. Look - Christine is sleeping, unless all that shouting woke her up again. I'd rather get back to her before she wakes up, so she doesn't think I've just abandoned her - but I need to make sure you're going to be alright too."

Erik hissed. "I don't need your pity, Claire," he spat, though with less rage than before.

Claire snorted. "Please Erik, I would never insult you such. No, believe it or not, I actually _care_ about you - even with all the monumentally terrible decisions you've made over the last day. Even if you don't care about me. And when someone I care about is hurting, I have to at least _try_ to help, or what kind of friend would I be?"

"Now," she continued, "I'm not going to pretend that your reaction just now was justified, but I'm also not going to pretend that what Christine did wasn't a pretty cruel and shitty thing to do. She asked you about the mask, you told her no, and she went ahead and did it anyway. You have every right to be angry with her right now. But I swear to GOD, if you hurt her again-"

Erik suddenly moaned in despair, cutting Claire off. "I didn't mean to-" he stammered, burying his face in his spindly hands. "How badly hurt is she?"

"She'll be okay, Erik - her wrists will probably bruise a bit, but she'll heal. Honestly, the emotional upheaval of the last 24 hours has done more damage than anything. She needs to sleep, and she needs to be treated gently. And so," she continued, opening the first aid kit finally, "do you, I think."

Erik looked back up at her, his brow furrowed in consternation. "What could you possibly mean by that?"

Claire pulled from the kit a few alcohol wipes and antibiotic cream. "Erik," she sighed, "you reacted so badly to Christine's actions that you used her fingernails to harm yourself - and you're still bleeding. First of all, I need to make sure you don't get an infection. And second - when was the last time anyone just, well… took _care_ of you?"

Erik stared at her, starting to shiver slightly. "Never, mademoiselle."

"Right then. That's what I'm here for at the moment." She ripped open one of the wipes and leaned forward, gently taking his chin in her hand and turning his head to see where he had injured himself. Erik froze, his eyes wide and his hands visibly trembling.

"Now this will sting a bit, but you really do need this cleaned up - hurting yourself with fingernails is a great way to give yourself an infection, especially when it's someone else's." Slowly and carefully, Claire cleaned out the wounds, first on the left and then the right temples. Erik seemed to have stopped breathing, deciding to vibrate intensely instead. After the blood was cleaned, Claire carefully applied a thin layer of antibiotic to each wound and sat back to check her work.

"There," she declared. "Congrats, you've just been the first person to be treated with modern antibiotics, about 50 odd years before they'll be properly discovered. I don't think you'll need a bandage in this case, the bleeding has stopped and they aren't that deep - just, you know, be careful?" Erik nodded incredibly stiffly, still staring at her wide-eyed.

"Good. Okay then," she said, putting the kit back together and setting it on the floor. "Look, if you were one of my girl friends, and some shitty dude had ghosted you, I'd take you out to the club and we'd go dancing all night, or we'd go get mani-pedis and shit talk our exes. Since neither of those things are an option - and I doubt you'd enjoy them much anyway - all I can really do right now is ask how you're doing, and if there's anything else I can do to help."

Erik seemed to slowly come back to himself at her question. He blinked several times, swallowed hard, and slumped ever so slightly as the tension in his shoulders and upper back released. Finally he shook his head in despair. "Why did she have to be so curious, Claire? I know that if she had never seen me, she would have come to love me in return. But now that she _has_ seen me, if I let her go she'll never come back."

"That may be the case Erik - she's pretty hurt by all this. But you can't keep her locked up here, that's no way to get someone to love you."

Erik moaned in anguish, hiding his face in his hands again. "What else can I do, Claire? I am lost without her."

Before Claire could answer, the door to Erik's room swung open again, this time to reveal Christine standing on the threshold, silhouetted in the light from the drawing room.

"Erik?" she asked timidly, stepping inside.

"Oh, Christine…" he murmured, reaching out to her in desperation while covering his face with his other hand.

"Erik," she repeated, this time with more confidence. "Show me your face without fear - I will not run away or scream."

Christine slowly approached the two of them. Sensing she was about to become a third wheel - as frustrating as that was at such an important moment - Claire gathered her belongings and her skirts and headed toward the door. Before she left she glanced back.

"It seems the two of you need to talk - but I'll be right outside if you need a referee." So saying, she stepped out of the gloom-filled bedroom and slumped against the door as it closed behind her. She wondered, really, if anything she'd done would help in the long run.


End file.
